


30 Day NSFW Challenge: Imector

by Jubalii



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: 30 Day NSFW Challenge, 30 Day OTP Challenge, Drabble Collection, F/M, Tumblr Prompt, Various Themes: One Pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 82,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: A NSFW drabble collection based off the 30 Days OTP NSFW Challenge prompt list on Tumblr: all Héctor/Imelda. Ratings, Universes, etc. will fluctuate, but it's all varying levels of NSFW adult content.





	1. Day 1: Cuddles (Naked)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day One: Cuddles (Naked)  
> Modern!AU 
> 
> When you're married, it's hard to find time for each other. Sometimes, a little skin-on-skin contact is all that's needed.

“Still working?” Imelda didn’t look up from her tablet as Héctor entered the room, the bedroom door closing behind him with a soft _click._

“No.” Her tired eyes, squinting against the screen’s brightness, followed the endless lines of letters. Only her fingers moved, scrolling as she read her way down to the bottom of the page. “I’m looking at this article on Milan’s Fashion Week.”

“Milan?” She felt, rather than saw, him move towards the closet. His buckle clinked, jeans rustling as he drew his belt through the loops. “Since when do you care about fashion shows?” He opened the closet, hanging the belt on the hook inside the door. She heard his methodical stripping: socks, jeans, shirt, each one going straight into the hamper instead of on the bedroom floor. It had taken her the better part of ten years to each him that little trick, but now she had bragging rights among her friends: _her_ husband didn’t leave messes everywhere he went.  

“Not the shows,” she corrected him, flicking slowly through a slideshow of increasingly hideous fashions. Who designed these outfits, anyway? These were the people in charge of deciding what fashion was going to be the next big thing? They barely managed to make anything that looked remotely close to clothing! “The shoes.”

“Uh-huh.” She felt him slid into bed behind her. The mattress bounced lightly as he scooted towards her, sheets rustling as he moved them out of the way before draping them back across their bodies. He pressed his entire body down the length of her, his torso flush to her spine; one knee wormed its way between her thighs, one arm draped over her side while the other brushed the hair from her neck. He rested his chin on her shoulder, kissing it fondly before peering with interest at the tablet.

“Just _where_ are your clothes?” She didn’t need to lift the sheet to know he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. His bare leg rubbed against her calves, chest hair prickling between her shoulder blades. As she spoke, his hand left her side long enough to reach beneath the sheet, adjusting himself before sidling even closer.

“The same place yours are, I imagine.” He chuckled, breath hot on her ear. One arm was trapped between the mattress and her weight, but there was still enough room for his hand to trail down her stomach. His fingers combed into the curling hair between her thighs, cupping the space created by his leg. The other trailed up her arm, calloused fingertips dancing their way towards the dusting of freckles on her shoulder.

The words lay heavy on her tongue, ready to spill into the night air. _Not tonight, I’m not in the mood, I don’t want—_ However, his hand didn’t move. He wasn’t trying to instigate or arouse; instead, he seemed to be only interested in _feeling_ her, his palm soaking in the heat her body created. He kissed the rise of her neck, but even that lacked the warmth of passion. He was touching for touching’s sake, nothing more.  

She swallowed the rejections, a little perturbed at how easily they’d jumped to her defense. How long had it been since they’d cuddled this way, with no end goal in mind? She tried to think back, unable to pinpoint any real date or time. Before Coco? Before he left for tour with Ernesto? Surely it had been since then, all those years ago. But their lovemaking was rushed now, a race to hurry up and finish before being interrupted—by Coco, or her brothers, or the phone, or….

She couldn’t remember the last time they’d lay together, skin on skin, intimate without the intimacy. Suddenly her heart ached, filled to bursting with warmth and love for the man behind her. She grabbed his hand as it moved towards her breast, pausing him only to brush her lips over his knuckles in a welcoming kiss. He hummed, lips still against her neck, and his fingers curled deeper into the heat between her legs.

“ _Te amo_ , Héctor,” she whispered to his fingers before placing them on her right breast. His thumb rubbed a line over the smooth skin, and then he shifted enough to look over her shoulder at her. She twisted in his arms, smiling sleepily at him; she reached up and ruffled his hair, delighting at the familiar feel of after-shower silkiness sliding through her fingers.

“ _Te amo_.” He leaned down and kissed her jaw, eyelashes tickling her cheekbone as he moved to the dip behind her ear. She squirmed, shoving him back with her shoulder when he reached a sensitive spot. He grinned, teeth hard against her skin, and then leaned up to study her chest. He tapped a little chord on her breast, his smirk widening as it jiggled lightly in time with his movements.

“Really?” She smacked the hand away after a moment. He laughed, a boyish charm easing its way into the sound. “Can you please act your age, Señor Rivera? I’m not married to a thirteen-year-old.”

“A secret, _mi amor_ : men are just very tall boys.” He rubbed his cheek against her chest, nearly purring at the softness. His goatee scratched her skin, sending a muted shiver down her spine. She grumbled a wordless complaint after a moment, drawing his hand back to her stomach and pushing her spine bossily against his chest. He obeyed, curving his lithe limbs around her body and holding her close; she melted against him with a sigh, ankles crossing and locking his leg between hers.

“Stop looking at shoes,” he mumbled into her ear, nose nudging at a stubborn lock of hair. “Let’s finish that movie instead.”

“What movie?” She picked up the tablet, craning her neck to press a quick kiss to the underside of his jaw.  

“The one about the gynecologist. We still have it on the list, right?”  

“ _Everybody Loves Somebody_?” She clarified, incredulous. “I thought we agreed that it was terrible?” The movie had been highly rated, and they’d tried to watch it together the last time they’d had a free moment. It was just _something_ for the two of them to do together that didn’t involve their child; it was crazy to think that they saw less of each other after marriage than they did while dating. They’d each suffered through over half of it, only because they thought the other one was interested.

“It was,” he admitted. “But I thought that we should at least say that we watched it all.”

“I guess… if you really want to?”

“Well… really….” His arms tightened around her. “I thought we could just make fun of it, this time.” He adopted a low, nasally voice. “Come on, Clara, date me-e-e-e-e.” She tried to stop herself from laughing, her breath coming out in a wheezing snort.

“Oh-h, I’m sorry! I can’t, I never learned how to decide between me-e-e-n,” she replied, trying to match his annoying tone. He laughed, his face buried into the pillow to muffle the sound. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she pointed out. “We’re going to wake the house.”

“You’re right.” They lay quietly, listening to the silence of a sleeping house. He kissed his way back up to her ear. “Is it because I’m too attractive?” he whined, matching the character’s tone word for word.

“No, it’s the Crocs with the cartoon pins,” she gasped, both hands over her mouth as she wheezed harder.

“But the kids like them!”

“Kids also… also…” she trailed off. “Damn, I can’t remember the line.” They stared at each other, his dancing eyes boring holes into her laughing ones.

“You know that’ll bother you all night,” he said, eyebrows wiggling suggestively. She bit her lip, rolling her eyes before dragging the tablet back towards them.

“Alright, alright. You win this _once_.” She rolled back onto her side, hiding his expression of triumphant glee.

“Can I get that in writing?” She hid her own smile, typing in the account password and settling into the crook of his arm.

“No chance, _músico_.” 


	2. Day 2: Kissing (Naked)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Kissing (Naked)  
> Toymaker!AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: this is set in the toymaker!au universe, which is based off a headcanon by usuallymassivegalaxy. If you want to read more about this universe, I’d suggest checking out the main fic as well! Alternatively, the tags on my blog are both #toymaker!au and #palabras de amor.

Imelda was a pious woman. She went to Mass regularly; she even managed to drag her twin brothers along, their hair slicked down against their will and their shirts starched come hell or high water. She said her prayers and attended Confession. She paid the dues, lit the candles, and yawned through enough dawn services that she ought to have been canonized by now.

It stood to reason that she guarded against sin. Sin was sex: that was what her mother (God rest her soul) had warned her about, the night she became a woman. Shushing her panicked tears—any child that finds blood where there was no wound had a right to cry, shameful as it was—Mamá had slowly explained the act between a man and a woman. Without the bond of matrimony and the thought of children, sex was a selfish act; an emptiness, a taking without any real love. It could be said that it was worse than falsehood, or greed, or even wrath. _Coveting,_ she’d said sternly, her black eyes even darker with judgement. _Without the holiness of marriage, it’s nothing more than coveting._

Did that mean she now coveted Héctor?

No, of course not. Coveting was the desire for something she couldn’t have. She could have him; he was her sweetheart, after all. She could stand up and walk to his shop anytime she wanted to. She could kiss him in front of Ernesto, in front of the shop, in front of the _town_ , and no one could say a word. And besides… there was a weight on her finger now, to remind her: in only a few short months, she would be more than his sweetheart. She would be his bride.

Until then, she was perfectly capable of resisting the temptation of flesh. She didn’t plan on having him between her legs until their wedding night. But there was the thought of it— and so what?! Thoughts were thoughts, nothing more. It wasn’t a sin to _think_ , even if those thoughts centered around her fiancée’s body. Perhaps it was idleness, sitting motionless at her workbench with her head in the clouds while there were shoes to be made. But even idleness had its purpose in the world, didn’t it?

Most of Santa Cecelia thought Héctor to be ugly. A _ruined_ man, they gloated, unable by both fate and design to reach the ideals of machismo. A childhood accident had left him with a heavy limp, unable to do any real labor. Malnutrition at the orphanage had thinned his face until, by comparison, his nose, eyes, and ears looked too large. His shoulders were hunched when he sat, used to bending over a workbench for hours in the _juguetería_. His teeth were tolerable, but he still had a gold crown where one of them had broken. 

To make matters worse for himself, he was a mute. The accident that had claimed the use of his leg also crushed his throat, or the muscles in his throat, or—the physicians themselves didn’t know the full extent of those injuries. It went beyond the realm of modern medicine, but what did it matter? Even if the doctors did have an answer, that didn’t mean anything would change. Héctor could make sound, but anything he tried to say was unrecognizable. His voice was breathy and wordless, a cataclysm of jarring notes that wobbled like a newborn fawn. He could barely make out a syllable or two, but only in a harsh whisper; even _that_ didn’t sound like a proper word. His speech was the wheezing of an invalid close to death, not the voice of a strapping man in the prime of his life. And so… he didn’t speak. 

Altogether, the very sight of him should have sent her running. Yet, she was smitten. There was a boyish charm to his mismatched face: a twinkle in his eye, a wry twist to his mouth that left her blushing and hating herself for it. He was a man with the heart of a child, his wild imagination brimming with ideas for toys that made the local children squeal with delight. It was true that he limped, but he limped with _purpose_ ; he could often outpace men with two good legs, his mouth set with determination as he carried whatever he was hauling from the marketplace to the shop.

And just because he had no voice… well, that had never stopped him from filling her ears—or her eyes, rather—with mindless chatter. He had an odd language, his hands flying through the air with pantomimes that were completely his own making. It had only taken her a few weeks to get used to it, her eyes able to quickly follow the flow of his ‘words’ while his lips flapped to their own beat, mouthing harder concepts for her when she didn’t understand from gesture alone. She’d even seen him in full knock-down drag-out arguments with Ernesto, one screaming at the top of his lungs while the other cursed with flailing hands.

Others might have seen someone undesirable, but not her. The way his vest tucked into his belt, cinched neatly at the waist, his sleeves rolled up to reveal wiry forearms, a pencil often stuck behind his ear for easy access as he worked… there was no harm in looking. He was going to be her husband, after all. And she wasn’t the only one: she’d felt those warm, sweet eyes on her as she crossed the street in front of the _juguetería_. She welcomed them, even; the thought of him inside, watching her, brought all sorts of questions to the forefront of her mind. Did he like what he see? Did the thought of her body excite him?

It was okay to let him look, and look in return. There was nothing wrong with imagining his lips brushing across her bare stomach, those soft eyes bold for once, darkened in desire. If she squeezed his lithe frame in an embrace, what was the harm in thinking about the warm, broad expanse of his bare chest, the dark hair that curled from his unbuttoned collar, the bony planes that were hers to explore if she so chose? It couldn’t be called coveting, not when she knew he’d gladly give her the world. It wasn’t sin.

Now, all she had to do was convince him of that.

* * *

 

The moment she saw his stupid face, Imelda couldn’t control herself.

He’d barely opened the door, a welcoming grin plastered on his lips, and she was on top of him. Angry fists pounded at his chest, his hands flying to her waist as he stumbled back; she hadn’t realized that she leapt at him before it was too late. A high, wordless cry left his throat, turning into a cut-off hiss of pain when he landed on his bad leg. He slid towards the ground, arms flailing in an effort to keep them upright. One hand found the wall, nails digging into the paisley print, and the other grabbed at his stool; by some magic he stopped their descent, staring up at her with his mouth agape.

“You!” she snarled, still clawing at his chest. His woolen vest twisted under her fingers, the buttons on his white shirt straining from her efforts to rend, tear, mar him in some way. She was torn between anger and love, exasperation and joy, wanting to clutch him and throw him away from her all at once. “¡ _Cómo te atreves_! How could you?!” He couldn’t stutter his way into an excuse, but the question was on his face all the same.

 _What on earth—?!_ Hands caught her wrists easily, easing them both into a standing position. She fought against his tender hold, trying to slap the confusion off his face.

“Gone two weeks and no letter, no note, no postcard—you didn’t even tell me you were leaving! You didn’t tell me where you’d be! I can’t believe you!” His brow furrowed, eyes darting to the door and back, but she wasn’t swayed by his apparent bafflement. There was no repentance in the look, no remorse. She bristled, trying to conjure some semblance of guilt in those expressive eyes of his. “Is this any way to treat your fiancée?”

His entire face lit up at the word, a buoyant sunbeam that sparkled from his irises down to his golden crown. He lifted her by the hips, twirling her around the toy shop giddily. She kicked at his good leg, squirming in his grasp until he sat her back down. Both hands cupped her cheeks, and before she knew it he was pressing quick, delighted kisses from her hairline to her chin. She closed her eyes, unable to stop herself from enjoying the feel of his lips over her eyelashes, the apples of her cheeks, the tip of her nose, the bottom of her jaw…. When he was through, she graced him with a frown she normally saved for her brothers.

“You’re not going to distract me.” A slyer grin, a quick shake of his head.

_Not distracting._

“You are.”

_Not._

“ _Are_.” She shoved his hands back to his chest, stepping away. “Where were you?”

_Taking care of some things._

“What things?” He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “ _What things_?” One hand came out, rising from his ear to his mouth before pressing a single finger against his lips.

 _A secret._  

“Héctor.” She crossed her arms. “You shouldn’t keep secrets from your wife.”

A snappy succession of gestures. _When we’re married, I won’t._ Before she could reply, he glanced over her head and rolled his eyes. One hand came up, making a motion _anyone_ could recognize. _Shoo-shoo, go away_. She turned to see Ernesto’s face against the window, his mouth twisted in anger. Héctor reached over her shoulder, repeating the motion before pointing sternly. Ernesto groaned, loud enough to be heard through the plate glass, and then stomped out of sight and down the street.

“It’s not fair to lock him out,” she pointed out, still irritated at him. As annoying as Ernesto could be, his side was often easy to take if she felt spiteful enough. “He lives here, too.” Héctor sighed, shaking his head before taking her by the hand. He all but dragged her into the kitchen, kicking the door that separated the shop from the living quarters shut behind them. He let go of her, collapsing in a chair before patting his thigh invitingly. “Absolutely not.”

_Pat, pat._

“You don’t deserve it.”

_Pat, pat, pat._

“I said _no_ , Héctor.”

… _pat, pat_.

“Oh, fine.” She reluctantly sat on the very edge of his knee, her arms crossed and nose in the air. _This can’t keep happening once he’s my husband,_ she assured herself. _He’ll get away with everything._ He kicked his leg out, nearly bouncing her off his knee, and snickered when she glared. His laughter was odd, to say the least—a wheezing hiss of air, sputtering like a horse—but she normally enjoyed hearing it. Of course, he usually wasn’t laughing at her. “You’re asking to meet my boot,” she warned him. He didn’t answer, tracing his thumb down her arm before drawing a neat series of cursive I’s on the back of her palm.

 _Imelda_. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the sparks that flew from wherever his thumb touched. _Imelda. Imelda. Imelda. Imelda._ Over and over and over. He couldn’t say her name, couldn’t even get the necessary breath for the ‘ _im’_ to come out right: he’d tried, the night she kissed him, and frustrated himself to the point of a coughing fit. But he could sign his special sign for her endlessly if she let him, and she knew he was saying her name in his mind with every calloused loop.

“I was worried about you, alright?” The words slipped out the moment she opened her mouth. She blushed, but let them take their course, looking out the kitchen window to where the whitewood swayed in the breeze. “I keep telling you and the boys both: those trains are _dangerous_. They derail all the time and one of these days you’re going… to….” His fingers brushed her chin and she stopped, a lump in her throat.

“What was I supposed to do if you never came back?” she whispered, hating the way her voice broke. He angled her face towards him, an uncharacteristic frown pulling at his lips. He shook his head firmly, but for once didn’t offer any explanation to the gesture. Holding her gaze, he shook it again, and she knew his meaning as easily as if he’d said it aloud.

_I will come back._

“You don’t know that,” she protested, but the words died on her lips as he guided her into a soft kiss. Her lips trembled against his, eyes screwing shut as she let him melt her anger. Her arms wound around his neck, holding him still as she deepened the kiss. She poured her worry into him, letting him drink all the nagging fears and whispers of the last two weeks and leaving her empty and aching.

“ _Quiero tocarte_ …” He leaned away, bemused. His head cocked like a puppy’s, one arm reaching for her hand and guiding it to his cheek. He leaned into her palm, a goofy, contented smile on his face.

 _You can?_ He mistook her meaning. Sometimes his mind seemed _infuriatingly_ chaste compared to hers. She knew that he desired her, but he managed to hide it so easily beneath his usual boyish charms.

“No…” She freed her hand from his grasp, trailing down his neck. He shied away, pushing her fingers down towards his collar with a wince; he didn’t like her touching his neck, not because it was painful but because he didn’t like thinking about it. A surge of affection filled her, warming in her stomach. If she did anything in her life, it would be to show him just how much she loved every part of him.

“I want to…. here.” She rested her hand on his chest, just over the V of his vest. He looked down, nose wrinkling. “And here.” She moved lower, to his stomach. It quivered beneath her, his breath stuttering as she plucked at the fabric. “And… here.” Even lower, the metal of his belt buckle cool against the pad of her finger.

His lips parted as he stared down at her finger, resting lightly on the top of his belt. He made a face, as if unable to believe what he saw, and then a series of smaller emotions flew over his features faster than she could name them. He shook his head quickly, his hand grabbing hers and squeezing it tight before putting it firmly on her lap.

 _No, no, no_. He kept shaking, something akin to panic in his eyes as his hands did a non-vocal form of stammering, fingers shaking as he tried to form the concepts flashing in his eyes. _We can’t—shouldn’t—won’t, no, no, we have to wait, it’s not—bad, very bad, no… no—_ he stopped, cringed, and then made a very odd movement with his hand, rolling it against his other palm in a clean swoop.

“No… what?” He grimaced, giving her a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t understand. What’s that?” She repeated the movement, and to her surprised he turned bright red. He shook his head harder, one hand closing around hers to stop her.

 _It… Ernesto and me… it’s—_ He glanced around with a little sigh of defeat, and she knew he was looking for paper. It was rare when he couldn’t make her understand from pantomime alone, but he did have certain signs that stood for abstract concepts she hadn’t learned yet.

“Hold on.” She climbed off his lap, running back into the empty shop to grab his notebook and a dull pencil from the counter. She brought it back, noting how he’d rested his forehead against his palm, clearly berating himself for whatever was going through his mind. “Here.” He jumped, then took the notebook from her with a tired frown. He nodded at the door.

 _Close it._ She did so, hearing him scribble something quickly behind her. When she turned around, he was holding the notebook out again. Everything from the tip of his ears to his neck and the top of his chest was alight in a fierce blush. She took it, reading the hasty scrawl across the top of the next empty page.

_hacer el amor_

She stared at the words, feeling her own face slowly redden. In the back of her mind, his palm rolled again against his fingers, the action suddenly making too much sense. She looked up at him; his face was in his hands, ears still redder than an unripened blackberry. 

“I didn’t mean _that._ ” He jumped in place, peeking at her through his long fingers. She threw the notebook onto the table, standing before him with her hands behind her back. “I meant… touching. That’s all. I want to see you.” Her voice didn’t seem her own, a softer note flavoring the words. He perked up at it, swallowing thickly. “Don’t you want to see me?” she all but whispered, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks as she spoke. It didn’t sound like something a woman should say to a man, but he was her fiancée. Maybe that made a difference?

 _I—well—_ His fingers twitched on his legs, and without warning his gaze dropped to her chest, then lower. She shivered, standing still and letting him look. She’d never done this before, standing boldly in front of a man and allowing him—encouraging him!—to look at her as a woman. Something hungry passed across his features, but then he shook himself and came back to his senses. _No, no, we shouldn’t—_ no can’t, this time. He was wavering.

She reached out, touching his chin the way he’d touched hers. His head was still shaking, but she gently changed course until he was nodding in small bursts, in time with her hand. His eyes pleaded with her; he was clearly as torn as she was. But she wanted… and for the first time, she was in a position to have what she… yes.

_What I covet._

This was a sin… but she’d absolve herself of it on Sunday. Right now, piousness was the last thing on her mind. How could this be a sin? This wasn’t empty or wrong. She wanted him, but she loved him. She wasn’t going to use him. He might use her, perhaps, but he’d never do that. And it wasn’t sex… all she wanted was to feel.

 _Imelda._ His finger traced a single I, a reminder for her to come back from her thoughts. He ran both hands through his hair, scrubbing his cheeks. They puffed out with a single breath, and then he nodded on his own, once.

“Héctor….” He closed his eyes, drawing in a breath through his nose and holding it. “Please?” Again he nodded, this time taking her hand and linking her fingers through his. He drew her towards the staircase, sparing one glance at the closed door before rolling his shoulders.

She let him lead her up the narrow stairs, her heart pattering in her chest. The landing only held two rooms—a washroom, with the door standing open, and another room with the door shut. She froze, feeling a cold chill settle in her stomach and begin gnawing. The bedroom. It had to be.

He opened the door, drawing her inside before shutting. Two hastily made beds, one washbasin on a stand in beneath the window, a mirror, two guitars, and clothes scattered in every direction. It looked a lot like her brothers’ bedroom…. _Two bachelors live here, that’s for sure._ She inhaled, her throat tightening at a mixture of sweaty men, shaving lather, heavy cologne and something musty. It wasn’t a _bad_ smell, per se, but it definitely wasn’t her favorite.

Something clicked, and she turned to see him with a small key. He held it up, making sure she saw it before putting it on top of the clothes cupboard with a poignant look. Again, she read him too easily: _you’re not locked in._ She smiled, gritting her teeth at the swell of nerves in her chest. She wasn’t frightened downstairs; what was the difference in being upstairs?

He swung his arms at his side, looking around with a lost expression. His eyes landed on her and he tried to smile, but his mouth was shaking along with his hands. He was clearly just as nervous, if not more. All at once, she realized that he could have been doing this only for her.

“You’re okay with this, aren’t you?” He arched a brow. “If you don’t want to… I mean, we don’t _have_ —” She fell silent, mouth falling open as he yanked off his vest in one swift movement. “Héctor!” she squeaked shrilly, too surprised to modulate her voice. He balled the vest up before tossing it to the end of his bed, and started silently on the buttons to his shirt. _W-wait just one second!_

She crossed the room faster than she thought she was able on wobbly legs, and pressed his hands flat to his chest with her own. He stopped, his eyes glancing to the key. Swallowing her nerves—she was the one who’d asked for this, after all, and she didn’t want to stop—she brushed his fingers aside and began to work the buttons herself. She meant to be efficient, perhaps even sexy, but her fingers shook so badly that she could barely get the buttons out of their holes.

 _Imelda._ His thumb traced on the back of her hand; she looked up to see him watching her. His hand rose to cup the back of her head, pulling her forward until their lips met. He kissed her slowly, closing the gap between them and trapping her hands against his chest. She melted against him, surrendering to the light brush of his tongue against her lower lip. _Imelda_ , he repeated on her scalp, winding his fingers in her hair until it came free of her braid.

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_ —” She sighed against his lips, her eyelashes fluttering. He always managed to make her so dizzy with his kisses; if he wasn’t helping to hold her up, she’d have slid to the ground by now. His free hand found her shoulder, one finger slipping beneath her blouse. She was startled by its warmth, shivering uncontrollably as he slid it down in a perfect arc. He followed the hem down to her chest, dancing over the rise of her breast before reaching up to tickle the skin above her collarbone. “ _Tócame_ ….” He tapped lightly.

_I am._

“I mean… in another way….” She didn’t know _what_ she meant, exactly, only that she wanted his hands everywhere on her. He took a step back, leaving her alone and quavering as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He rolled the fabric off his shoulders, shrugging out of it and turning the sleeves inside out as he pulled his arms through.

 _How could anyone think this ugly_? she thought, enchanted by the lithe movement of his torso as he threw the shirt to join his vest on the bed. He was as bony as she’d thought he’d be; she could count his ribs all the way to where they disappeared at his stomach, a concave dip that tapered into a v before reaching the line of his trousers. His hipbones jutted above the cinched fabric, barely hanging onto the belt. She swallowed, her throat dry as she turned her attention to the chest hair at his pecs, dark curls surrounding flat nipples and trailing into a broken line down his stomach.

 _Imelda_? He snapped to get her attention, concern creasing in a line between his brows. She met his eyes, wanting to touch him but not knowing where to start. _What? What?!_ One hand rose to his chest self-consciously, and she cleared her throat.

“I… it’s just….” She fought for something to say, her mind curiously stuck between his navel and the two sharp lines leading like arrows to his trousers. “ _M-muy guapo._ ” His brows jumped, eyes widening.

_Really?_

“ _S_ _í_.” She licked her lips, reaching out before she could stop herself. Her fingers touched his sternum, feeling his breath hitch as she slowly spread her palm over his heart. It raced beneath her hand, thumping wildly as if trying to beat right out of his chest. She closed the space between them again, reaching up to cup his jaw. He smiled, following her hand back down until they were kissing again.

She lost track of time and herself, wrapped up in his insistent kisses. Without his shirt, it was painfully obvious that only her blouse separated his warm chest from her bare skin. She ran her hands through his curls, tracing down to his diaphragm and back up to his neck. He made a little sound when her fingers brushed his nipples, lips vibrating against hers as he pushed subtly towards her. She did it again and he gasped into her mouth, his fingers digging into her shoulder blades.

It was only when her hands trailed down his stomach that he pulled away. She thought he was about to stop her, but to her shock he only watched. She ran her index finger down one side of the V, tracing the shallow divot to his belt and then, in a fit of boldness, under the edge of his trousers. He made a noise, his stomach clenching, and she felt heat pool in her stomach at the sound.

“Héctor?” Their eyes met; his were dark, his large pupils banded with thin lines of deep brown. The look he gave her went straight to her core, her toes curling into the soles of her boots and body aching acutely. She had never been more aware of how cold and empty she was, needing something that he could offer her.

His eyes flickered to the bed and back, gears turning in his mind as he clearly considered his next move. She made the choice for him, drawing him back with her as she lay on the bed. Her dress crinkled, skirts riding around her knees as she pulled him on top of her. He shook his head, rolling to lay beside her and pulling her until they were nose to nose. She reached down to his belt, the cool metal against her palm, and looked up to gauge his reaction. One brow rose, the corner of his mouth twisting.

_If you must._

_Oh, I must._ She slowly unbuckled it, the leather sliding easily through her hands. The buckle clinked and fell aside, revealing the buttons of his trousers, fabric tenting slightly. She glanced up again, but his expression didn’t change. Too slowly, waiting for him to stop her, she unbuttoned the two and swallowed a gasp when the fabric sagged around her fingers. She accidentally brushed over the growing lump and he hissed, breathing through his nose. Her eyes darted from his face to his chest, then to his pants and back again in a circle. He still wasn’t stopping her?

“Can I?” There was a pregnant pause, and for a long moment he stared over her head at nothing. Then, with careful movements, his hands covered hers on his trousers and slowly slid them down. She held her breath, fabric gathering under their hands and sliding over his hips, down to his lanky thighs. He shimmied and they were suddenly to his knobby knees, then his ankles, revealing the hairy curve of his calves: then, with one final shake, they were off.

He was entirely naked.

She stared at the hair on his legs, almost afraid to look back up and see what was going to be waiting for her. Gulping, she resolved to look once and just be done with it. _One… two… three!_ Her eyes flew to his groin and she stared, hard.

It was… a penis.

 _Of course! What did you think would be there, Imelda?_ It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s privates before. She’d helped take care of her brothers all their lives, after all. And even teenagers went swimming in the river as naked as the day they were born. But it wasn’t like that at all… and yet it was. She brushed the lower part of the V, the part that his trousers had hidden, and it jumped.

He grabbed her before she could react, his hands pinching her cheeks lightly before kissing her. She hooked a leg around his bare waist, cursing her skirts as he yanked her close, sounds rumbling in his chest. She knew he didn’t like to make noise, embarrassed of the way his throat mangled any sounds he tried to release, but she wished that just once he’d let her hear the soft sounds of the pleasure he took from her. She rubbed against the hardening at her thigh, feeling him shake and jerk in her arms. He hissed, burying his face in her neck and kissing a line down her sweat-salted skin.

“Undress me next.” Was that her voice, all breathless and pleading? How humiliating… and yet, she wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest. “Oh—Héctor—please, me next— _please_ —” she mumbled, hips shifting helplessly when he sucked at her pulse.

 _No._ His head shake, while muted, was easy to feel. He finished one spot, tongue darting out to lick over the mark he made, and moved to a new one. She whimpered, arching against him and feeling his hips move, unconsciously grinding against her thigh through her skirts. She’d never felt so open, so vulnerable before; he could do anything he wanted and she’d gladly accept it, just as long as he didn’t take his hands off her. Just as long as he filled her and satisfied the unbearable yearning, the itch deep within her that needed tending.

“ _Please—”_

 _No._ She tugged at his hair, pulling until she knew it had to have stung. He paused, breathing heavily, and then let out a little grunt. _No._

“Why not?!” He pressed her forehead to his own, kissing her a handful of times in apology. “Héctor, please—”

 _No… Ernesto._ She tensed. He didn’t think they had enough time, then. Better for Ernesto to catch Héctor with his pants down then to see them both tangled together on his bed, naked as the day they were born. _Safer,_ he added cautiously. He didn’t trust… her? Him? Them both? She let out a frustrated whine, pressing her thighs together. Just because it was practical, and really the best option… that didn’t mean she wanted to listen to him. _Shh…_ He feathered kisses over her cheeks, his lips pursed in a pout. _Soon._

“What?” He bent down, nipping at her lower lip before nuzzling her.

 _Soon._ He smiled. _Very soon._ His hand found hers, fingers tracing the outline of the ring he’d given her. She smiled, understanding what he was trying to say. Maybe not today, but someday. When they belonged to each other, they could do as they pleased. Maybe she’d even grow tired of his body… though she highly doubted it. If this was just a taste of what he could offer….

“Yes, _mi amor_.” She smiled when his hips bucked again at the pet name. “ _Very_ soon.”


	3. Day 3: First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: First Time  
> Post-Canon 
> 
> Héctor can sometimes screw up pretty badly... but at least he's always forgiven in the end.

The first time Héctor ever attempted to make love to his wife, he failed miserably.

He could recall the moment in perfect detail, down to the sweat pooling at the dip of his spine. It had been the morning after their wedding; the two of them had been too tired from the tumultuous celebration to bother consummating the marriage the night before, instead falling asleep the moment their heads hit the pillow. Then it was the next morning, and they were staring at each other with matching expressions of trepidation. Nervous obligation managed to get him on top of her, his elbows locked as he stared down at her: trembling mouth, loose hair, fighting nerves and laying _too_ passively, not at all like her usual fierce, demanding self— he blanked, tongue loose enough that he blurted out the first thing to cross his mind.

“I can’t do this!” She’d slapped him, _hard_ , and before he could say a word to explain himself she’d burst into tears. He spent the next ten minutes dodging everything that she could throw at him—the lamp, the pillows, her shoes, _his_ shoes—before realizing that it would be better to let her cool off before attempting to talk to her. His first morning as a husband was spent on the floor outside his own bedroom, his back against the door as he beat himself up for ever opening his dumb mouth. He’d eventually fallen asleep against it, falling and nearly breaking his head on the doorframe when she opened it.

He should have known then that that moment would set the tone for their marriage. He did stupid, _stupid_ things that she should never forgive him for, and yet every time she bandaged up his wounds (sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively) before letting him back into her life. It had taken a lot of consoling, promises that he hadn’t made a mistake, that he was overjoyed to have her as his wife, that he loved her and he’d only meant that _he_ wasn’t ready, that he didn’t have any idea about how to make her happy even though he wanted so, _so_ badly to….

In a way, it was still like that. She’d taken him back after his biggest screwup yet, one that had spanned nearly a century of heartache and confusion and misunderstanding. He would have understood if she never forgave him; once, she said she couldn’t, and he was content to live with that just as long as she’d listened to the truth. But she’d let him back into her life—albeit slowly—and had worked her magic. His bones were healing, his clothes repaired and new ones ordered… he even had shoes on his feet, boots that never gave him blisters no matter how far he walked or how long he danced.

But here he was, in a situation so similar that he was getting whiplash from the déjà vu. On his hands and knees, elbows locked, naked as the day he was born and spine beginning to protest from being in the position without moving. Imelda beneath him: trembling mouth, hair loose, eyes darting from his face to the window as she tried to maintain a neutral, somewhat bored expression. There were _some_ differences, naturally—it was nighttime, and he couldn’t sweat, and she was just as naked as him.

And they were skeletons, of course. That made an entire world of difference.

“Héctor?” He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until it came out in a sputtering _whoosh_ , fluttering her long bangs. She winced uncomfortably, shifting on the mattress below him. Just the thought of her, of disappointing her, her mouth twisted and eyes hardening, had him panicked.

“I-I-I can’t do this—?” His voice cracked, hesitant and unsure; it was as though he were asking her to confirm something he already knew. “I-I mean,” he added quickly, stumbling over his words, “I don’t know… what I’m doing. A-At all.” He didn’t _have_ to say it, other than to make himself feel better for explaining. Long gone were the days that such a sentence would send her into a fit of tears. Instead, she just blinked up at him with a quiet, longsuffering expression.

“Then why did you say anything at all?” she finally asked, her voice low and even. They could have been discussing the events of the day over a cup of tea, had he not been kneeling suggestively between her thighbones. His mouth worked wordlessly, trying to conjure up an appropriate excuse. Why _had_ he brought it up?

It had seemed, at the time, to be the most obvious thing. They were sleeping together—in the bed, not in the figurative sense—and they’d admitted not long ago that they still loved each other. Couples who loved each other had sex. He wanted to, of course. And he thought she wanted to, too. But somehow he’d conveniently forgotten the fact he lacked _certain_ body parts vital to the main act. If they’d still had fleshy bodies, it would have been a piece of cake. He _thought_ he could still remember her, the things she loved for him to do, hazy pictures of her face twisted in pleasure, hands grasping at the sheets as she gasped out his name—

“Héctor?” she again prompted, a note of impatience creeping into her tone.

“Well,” he stammered, the gears in his brain jammed, a distant screeching in his eardrums. “I just assumed you’d know.” The moment he said it, he knew it was the worst, the _worst_ thing he could have ever said to her in any circumstance, much less this one. Here. Now. Between her legs. “What I mean is—” he tried again, but she cut him off.

“I’d know.” Her voice was too quiet. She was calculating. Thinking. “You thought… that _I’d_ know.”

“It’s just that… ladies have those books, right? Those romance… thingies…” _Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, whatever you do—if you value your marriage, **do not laugh**_ **.** ” You know? Ha-ha-a-a-…ha….” Her brows slowly rose, mouth turning down at the edges as her stare became a glare. He knew that look too well; if she had flesh, her cheeks would be darkening now, spreading back towards her ears and down her neck, a mottled color that blended into the freckles on her collarbone (it was amazing what he could remember of her, so long ago; then again, he saw her angry face too often in those days).

“Are you telling me,” she said slowly, every word sinking his heart lower and lower into his stomach. “Are you telling me that you think I’ve spent my time, without you, reading _smut_.” It wasn’t a question, and yet it was the most loaded question he’d ever been handed in his life. Even those reporter people didn’t make things this hard to answer, and they were always trying to twist his words!

“S-s- _s_ _í_.” Her browbone jumped. “I mean, no.” It went even higher. “Maybe?” What was the right answer?! Was there a right answer? Everything he said just made her look angrier, but if he kept quiet she’d just think whatever she wanted anyway! He was corralled into a corner, a trapped animal with no place to hide.

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_ —” _Ay, dios_. He knew that tone. He wasn’t safe; it was all or nothing from here.

“What I mean to say is, not that you—well, I mean that between the two of us, you would be the one to—”

“ _Excuse me!?”_

“No! No, not like that!” He flinched back, shaking his head quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that at all! I just meant that if you _had_ read the—well, you read! I see you, when work’s finished for the day, I mean—look!” He pointed to the nightstand, where her latest novel was sitting demurely beside the bedside clock. “There’s one right there! You know what I meant!”

“Not all _those book thingies_ are sexual, Héctor!” she hissed, an embarrassed bite to her voice. “And not all of them include _bones_!”

“You misunderstand me, _mi vida, mi corazón—”_ There was no way he could salvage this, but pet names never hurt, right? _Wrong, so wrong; shut your mouth, tonto!_ But despite his thoughts, he was still jabbering on without any end in sight. It was as if his mouth was separate from his brain, running on autopilot while he frantically scrounged for a way to keep her boots far from his skull. “All I meant was—”

“Was what, Héctor?” She rose onto her elbows, working herself into a passion. “Did you mean that I waste my time with reading filthy _novelas_?”

“No, not at all!”

“Oh! So you meant something else then, did you?” One part of him, one small part that remembered the old living days, knew that nerves fueled her ire more than anger. She’d been just as nervous as he was, and instead of tears she now lashed out in fury. “You must have assumed me a professional, practicing in my spare time.”

“Of course not!”

“Of _course_ not?” How was that not the right thing to say!? What was that emphasis for?! He scrambled, trying to replay his words while still listening to what she was saying. “Oh, _a ver_ : there’s no way an old woman like me could ever find someone willing to sleep with her. That’s what you mean. _Entiendo completamente_.”

“Hey!” He held up one finger, trying to get some control over the situation. “I never said that. You’re putting words into my mouth.”

“What did you mean, then? Tell me, **_mi amor_** _._ ” Sarcasm dripped from every word, sending a chill up his spine. “How am I wrong?” Alarm bells clanged in the back of his head, every bone in his body warning him against even acknowledging _that_ particular question.

“ _Lo explicaré_.” He felt as if he were before the judge, trying to explain his way out of yet another fine. But at least then he was charged with illegally crossing the bridge and escaping officers. No judge could equal the gnawing fear he felt at facing his wife. There was a nagging terror in the bottom of his stomach, a sense that if he didn’t tread carefully, she’d kick him out and refuse to let him back in. That she’d wake up and realize her mistake, letting a fool like him back into her life.

“Please do.”

“Okay, first of all—well, I mean, I don’t know what you’ve been doing, to be honest; I mean, you could have—” Wait, no, he didn’t mean it like—too late. If she’d still had eyebrows, they’d be halfway up her forehead by now. At least she didn’t have nostrils to flare… right? It was little consolation, especially when he just _couldn’t shut up_. “I mean, not that I’d have minded! Of course if you’d found someone—not that you didn’t, that is—not that you wouldn’t have let another man—you could’ve found someone! I mean, look at you!” He motioned to her bare bones, pearly in the moonlight and glinting orange from the bedside lamp. She glanced down to her ribcage, and then back at him without changing her expression once. “You’re beautiful! Any man looking at your body would—”

“What makes you think men have been looking at me like that?”

“All-I’m-saying-is-if-they-did-I-wouldn’t-blame-them,” he hissed, his teeth clenched in a smile. “I never said you were easy.”

“You implied it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I _didn’t_.”

“You listen to me, mariachi, and you listen _good_.” She sat up completely, her face inches from his. He couldn’t help but flinch back, even as his heart fluttered unexpectedly. It had been a long time since she’d threatened him with the tried-and-true _mariachi_ line. How many years had it been since he heard it? Was it before they were married? His distraction was cut by her snarl, his eyes flashing back to hers. He raised onto his knees, looming over her and yet cowering from the sheer power of the aura she radiated.

“S- _s_ _í_?” he mumbled, hoping that his second death would be short and sweet. At the least, he’d probably _wish_ for death after whatever she was planning on doing to him. The twins were, so far as he knew, asleep and dead to the world. Now that Coco and Julio had moved with Victoria into a house of their own down the street, and Rosita gone as well, there was no one left to save him from her wrath.

“You are _not_ going to come into my bed and accuse me of such base, uncalled-for, _absolutely untrue—_ ”

“Imelda… _por favor_ ….” He reached placatingly for her, both arms outstretched. It was the wrong thing to do, or at least the wrong time to do it; her hands slapped at his, hard enough that the phalanges wavered in their places, unable to decide whether or not to scatter. Before Día de Los Muertos, he would have had to pick them up one by one. Now they held on, the memory stitching them together tightly enough that he only cringed in fear of what might have been.

“And another thing!” She wagged her finger in his face, looking more and more like a scolding grandmother than a lover. He shrunk away, his shoulders rising towards his wig as his chin slipped into his ribcage. “Another thing! Don’t you _dare_ sit there and think that I spent all my time reading filth and lying under men like some sort of—of— _sex maniac_! I am a respectable woman of character, not some alleyway tart!”

“¡ _Por supuesto_!” 

“Furthermore, I didn’t spend my one-hundred-and-nineteen years of life-and-death building _two_ businesses from the ground up just to be told off by the likes of you! I was slaving away over shoes for nearly all my life while you were out there by some slummy dock _twiddling your thumbs_!”

“Hey!” Again he tried, rather feebly, to defend himself. “Now, just hold on one min—”

“ _I am not done H_ _é_ _ctor Rivera_!” He fell silent, looking at her through lashes that no longer existed. She continued to point in his face, her index finger dangerously close to prodding his chin. “This is all fine talk coming from you, of all people! I am a woman with _grandchildren—_ no _, great-grandchildren_ , and you think I’m just going to let any kind of man into my bed?”

“No, I—”

“That I’d open my legs for every half-baked hombre to tell me that I was attractive ‘despite being a mother’?”

“No!”

“That I’d throw away everything I worked for so that some drunkard had access to _my_ hard-earned money, _my_ family, _my_ life?”

“Imelda, that’s not—”

“For _your_ information, you _miserable_ _músico_ —” She pushed at his shoulders, trying and failing to topple him,”—the last partner I ever had was **_you_**!”

There was a moment of silence. He’d heard her, of course, but the words had meant nothing. They floated around his empty skull cavity, unable to find a place to land and settle. She clapped her fingers to her mouth, eyes widening with a pained grimace; it was clear that she hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

“Y-yeah?” _Why are you still talking_? He cleared his throat, wavering on the edge of some precipice he couldn’t even see to understand. “S-So what? The last partner _I_ ever had—” he pushed her back, just as lightly, “—was **_you_**!” She gaped at him, her expression unreadable; he stared back, breathing heavily. He felt as if _he’d_ been the one yelling at _her_ , not the other way around. She snarled again, growling under her breath as she shoved at him. He lost his balance, righted himself, and shoved her back.

_Shove._

_Shove._

_Shove._

_Shove._

_Enough._ He caught her as she launched herself at him yet again, tackling her back to the bed. She became a wildcat under him, kicking and scratching until he grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head.

“Let go of me!”

“No.” There was a strength in denying her, a flimsy sense of power. They might have been nothing more than two sacks of bones, but he was taller _and_ stronger. Unless she screamed for help—unlikely, given both her pride and the circumstance—she was at his mercy. Not that he’d ever force her to do anything, of course. Once the danger of losing an eyeball was past, he’d let her go; it made him dizzy when he had to chase his eye across the ground, the room spinning on only one side.

“I said let go!” she arched against him, trying to free her hands. _If she’d actually stop and think,_ he thought to himself, _she’d just separate them and make me lose my grip._ He’d had more than enough run-ins with the police to know how to slip out of unwanted situations. He stared at her, watching as she slowly ran out of steam. “ _H_ _é_ _ctor_ —” Her hands clenched and unclenched, voice sputtering into a frustrated whine. “¡ _Sueltame_!”

“I’ve been chasing you for a hundred years,” he muttered. His thumb ran along one wrist, tracing the join of her ulna and radius. Her shoulders jerked, one last ditch effort to shake him off. “I’m not letting go now, not when I’ve finally caught you.”

“You—you think this is the right time to—you big— _dummy_!” Her feet pulled at the sheets, settling him further between her legs as she bent her knees. Her face twisted, eyes shining—was it the reflection of the lamp, or was she tearing up? He desperately hoped it to be the former. “First you insult me, and now you—”

“I never insulted you.” He slowly let his weight rest on her, testing how heavy he was. He might have been bones, but she was still so small and slight beneath him. He didn’t want to crush her. “You said all those things, not me.”

“You _implied_ —”

“I’m sorry.” Their faces were close again, although at least this time they weren’t fighting. She bit her lip, averting her eyes with a tired scowl.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know… I don’t know what I’m doing….” His mouth ghosted over her cheekbone. She shivered, shying away from the touch, her hips shifting under his. A spark skimmed across his pelvis, centered in the space just behind the bone. He rocked into it, trying to prolong the sensation just enough to make out what it was. It seemed so familiar….

“H-Héctor—” She squirmed, looking back at him with wide eyes. “What are you _doing_?”

“I don’t know!” She yanked one hand imperiously, silently demanding him to release it. He let it slide through his fingers, readying himself for a slap, or a shove, or even the book on the table cracking against his skull. Instead she wound her arm around his neck, pulling him closer and only turning away when he tried to kiss her.

“Imelda, _por favor_ —” He rocked his hips again, searching. It had been warmth he felt, warmth and a jolt dangerously close to pleasure, something he remembered from being with her. “I was really your last?” he murmured, when she evaded his lips a third time.

“Of course,” she snapped, but the heat was gone from her voice. Her hips moved in little jolts, as if they were hesitant to match his movements. It wasn’t what he needed, but it felt good, little spurts of electricity against his thigh. “N-no, not there,” she sighed, when he tried to adjust them. “Here, let me…”

“Ow!”

“Don’t be a baby.” She tucked her neck into her chin, trying to see down the length of their bodies. She stared a moment before cursing under her breath, her head flopping back to the pillow. “Ay, _dios_ …. I don’t know, either.”

“Look on the bright side, _mi amor_ …. I never was the best at making love.” He laughed nervously, shrugging one shoulder. “Nothing lost, nothing missed, no?” She stared wearily at him, the corner of her mouth twitching before she closed her eyes.

“You really haven’t changed at all, have you?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Yes… no.” She wound one leg around his hip, only to gasp.

“What?!”

“My hip, it—the joint—” There was an audible _pop_ , and she sagged in relief.

“Better?” She didn’t answer, her eyes screwed shut. He saw her swallow hard, the vertebrae dipping up even though there was nothing to swallow with. “Imelda?”

“I’m so old.” She laughed, the sound on the edge of hysteria. “I’m just… so old… I think I’ve forgotten how it even feels like.”

“Imelda— _mi amor_.” He brushed over her cheek with his fingertips, tracing the curve of the fern painted there. “I’m sorry.” She opened her eyes, one hand rising to cover his while her other arm pulled him closer.

“For what?”

“I should be old, too.” He kissed her now, and she let him, his hand pressing only to angle her face closer. Even without lungs he still lost his breath, her soft movements pulling the strength from his bones until he was a puddle on the bed beside her. She broke away first, her fingers biting into his as she panted.

“You should be.” She kissed him twice, in quick succession.

“I know—” He felt his chest tighten, bubbling with something dark and guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Her knee drew his hips to hers, her lips kissing their way up his chin until she found his mouth again. His hand slipped from her face, holding her ilium steady as she rolled her hips against his. Her hands tangled in his hair, dragging him back every time he pulled away for a breath.

“I’m—”

“ _Shh_ ….” She pressed her forehead to his, her neat, orderly markings meeting his wild, untamed ones. “You’re doing it.”

“I—I am?” His hips moved of their own accord, chasing hers as they rocked together with tiny, muted thrusts. It felt so good, too good to stop, his entire body wrapped arounds hers and hers around his. A part of him wanted to turn her back over, to press her down into the mattress and prolong the drag of their pelvises until she cried out, but he didn’t want to untangle himself from her for a single second.

“Yes,” she assured him, her voice strangely high and breathless. He thought he could remember her sounding like this, so long ago, but it might have just been his mind playing tricks on him. “You’re doing so well…”

“I am?”

“Yes… _yes_ ….”

That was all he needed to know. He buried his face in her shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around her and pressing her ribs against his. She clung to him in return, holding him just as closely and kissing from his neck to his shoulder and back again. He didn’t care if he wore himself out, he didn’t care if nothing came of this sweet, slow motion that they kept. He didn’t even care if he fell asleep in her arms. All that mattered was that he was forgiven again, and she’d take him back and bandage him up and make sure he was alright before setting him off to make a fool of himself once more.

If he could make her happy… then there was nothing else to it.


	4. Day 4: Masturbation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Masturbation  
> Pre-Canon 
> 
> After a few months on the road, Héctor is starting to miss his family more and more every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I've never actually written detailed male masturbation before so... y'know, forgive me in advance.

Héctor was learning plenty of life lessons on the road. One of the biggest ones was a universal truth: a person can be your best friend, but that doesn’t mean you mesh well enough to live together.

“C’mon, Héctor. I just want you to have a bit of fun; there’s no need to get _angry_ about it.” Ernesto was shrugging on his jacket, acting as nonchalant as ever. _He could probably commit a crime right under someone’s nose with a smile,_ he thought, still scowling from the safety of his bed. _Steal your grandma’s jewels and wish her a thousand blessings on his way out the door._

Of course he didn’t _really_ think that, he added with a rush of guilt. Ernesto was just getting on his nerves, that’s all. And maybe he _was_ overreacting, just a little. It was as if Ernesto had ripped his mail or anything, he was just being a tease, holding it over his head and making him fight for it. That’s the way he’d always been, even as kids. _C’mon, flaquito! Jump a little higher and earn your oranges!_

“Sorry, _amigo._ ” Héctor swallowed, looking down at the faded envelope in his hands. “I just… don’t feel like going out tonight. Maybe I’m coming down with something.” He tried to smile. “A little rest and I should be fine.”

“It’s nothing a beer wouldn’t fix,” Ernesto retorted, though he seemed a little disconcerted. A wrinkle appeared between his carefully groomed eyebrows, his mouth twisting to the side. “Besides—”

“I want to _rest_ , Ernesto.” He broke off, swallowing the sharp tone before adding in a calmer voice, “After all, I’d hate to lose my voice right before a performance. We want to sound our best, right?” It was easiest to get his friend off his back if he acted like his voice was his biggest worry. Just as he predicted, Ernesto’s expression smoothed into a placating smile.

“Of course.” He fixed his jacket, hands clenching the lapels before reaching for the door. “If you feel that it’s needed… I’ll just go alone.”

“I wish I was better company.” _That_ was the complete and honest truth. What had started out as two friends on a journey to play for the world had dissolved into… whatever this was, and too slowly for him to stop it. He was starting to think that their dreams weren’t the same anymore. His thumb rubbed over the letter, feeling the ragged edges of the envelope.

“Nonsense.” Ernesto’s smile tightened, a sign that he was still irritated but trying not to show it. “You’re my best friend, Héctor. Your health is the most important thing.”

“Well, have a good time for me, too.” He tried to rally himself, to remember what he might have said back in Santa Cecelia. “Don’t get caught up with a girl and stay out past your bedtime.” The joke fell flat between them, although Ernesto had the decency to laugh anyway.

“We’ll see. You… rest.” With that, the door slammed shut and he was left alone, the gas lamp flickering from the rush of air. Héctor sighed, laying back on the bed and wincing as a spring poked into his backside.

What had changed? He and Ernesto used to be as close as _primos…_ no, _hermanos._ When did they stop laughing, and start arguing? They were having more and more of these petty squabbles the farther they traveled… maybe they were all his fault. Maybe he was the one lashing out, instead of Ernesto. Or maybe it was a 50/50 split. He couldn’t tell anymore. 

Shaking his head, he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. Two pages, this time; that was new. Imelda usually wasn’t one to waste paper; like most of the other letters, her first page was front and back, cramped together tightly enough in an effort to keep from having to write vertically as well. Setting the second, emptier page aside, he unfolded the bulk of the letter and began to read.

_My dearest love:_

Like all her letters, she began with well wishes and hopes for his and Ernesto’s continued health on their journey. He could hear her voice in his head as he read over the lines, thanking him for such a long letter; he grinned when he read about Coco’s delight in a ‘letter’ of her own, complete with a doodle of a dog he’d seen at the train station in Monterrey. He was no artist, but if those drawings were enough for his little girl, he’d be sure to draw another one on his next letter.

He read over the local news with relish, chuckling as she recounted how the boys—her twin brothers—had tried to ride Don Rodrigo’s bull and were bucked off into the side of a barn. _You should see them, hunched over like little old men as they do their chores! I can’t help but laugh, even though I try not to let them see; it serves them right for teasing that poor creature, and sneaking into someone else’s barn besides._

Then, as easily as it had come, the smile slid from his face. _Mamá is worsening, though she tries not to show it. She can no longer rise from her sickbed. Coco sneaks into her room and she lets her now; by the time I find her, her dolls are spread over the quilt and she’s on the pillow next to her, chattering her ear off. I know that must tire Mamá, but I don’t have the heart to shoo her away. I know it can’t be long—_ the words were crooked and disjointed, as though her hand shook— _until she joins Papá, and I want Coco to have these memories while she can… am I wrong to say nothing?_

 _Of course not, mi amor._ His heart clenched, reaching across the miles of train tracks to seek hers. Coco only had Imelda’s mother—his own parents had died before _he_ could remember them, and Imelda’s father had lived just long enough to hold his granddaughter one time. It wasn’t selfish to want their daughter to have at least _one_ memory of the past generation to hold to her heart, to say that she’d known her grandmother.

He wished, suddenly, that he was home, to clasp Imelda to him and whisper it to her in the night. He _should_ be home, to help her shoulder the burden of a dying parent. And yet… he’d chosen this. He was here, to share his music with the world and send home what money he could.

_I’m glad you’re making more money, mi vida. What you sent with your last letter was enough to settle the debts, with a little left over to save. Still, send some more if you can—Coco’s shoes are coming apart at the seams, and I can’t see them lasting the winter. She can still go barefoot for the moment, but it won’t be long before she outgrows them. She’s already as tall as the kitchen table, and growing another inch every time I turn my back._

_My girl…._ Already that tall?! He couldn’t hardly believe it. She’d be too big to hold by the time he returned. Would she even remember her papá, or would he be a stranger in a mariachi suit, a man standing in their kitchen with whom she had no ties?

_She wants to write you a letter, even though I keep telling her she doesn’t know how to write yet. She can say her alphabet, and that’s good enough for a novel, apparently. Even now she’s standing at my side, jumping up and down and begging me to write down what she wants to say, and let her—help her—sign her name. So, since I’m almost out of news, I’ll indulge her this once. I know **you** won’t mind. _

_Dear Papá:_

_Hi! This is Coco. Mamá says you are playing your guitar for lots of people all over the country. She says your letter came all the way from Monterrey. Can you come home on the train tonight and sing for me, too? You can go back there tomorrow if you want to. Also, I liked the doggy! Draw me next time! We have a kitty now, but can you bring me back a dog when you come home? The kitty had a mouse yesterday. Mamá threw it out by the tail, but she brought it back inside and T_ _í_ _o Oscar screamed when he stepped on it. I will draw you a picture of it._ (There was an ink-blotted scribble of a circle with legs, and a stick-man-thing that he had to assume was Oscar.)

 _Write another letter soon, okay? I love you!_ In big letters, shaky and lopsided, she had written her name. _S-O-C-O-R-R-O._ He could see her, sitting on Imelda’s lap as she slowly guided her hand, chubby with baby fat, into making the letters on the very bottom of the page. _My girls!_ He kissed her name, folding up the letter and pressing it to his cheek. If only they could feel his embrace, so far away, coming through the words. He missed them more than anything in the world.

He’d almost forgotten about the other page entirely; he was so used to only having one page of a letter—paper was paper, something not to be wasted, after all—that it was only when he went to put his letter back in the envelope that he heard the rustle against the sheets. Oh, of course! There’d been another part…. He wondered what it was. Imelda had said enough of the usual things in the main body of the letter; she’d even admitted having been running out of things to say.

There was a momentary, startled panic that it might be an addendum. Her mother’s passing, perhaps, would have been enough for her to take out another sheet before she sent it. He quickly grabbed for the paper, opening it and steeling himself for whatever he would read, good or bad.

 _My bed is cold, mi amor._ Like a splash of icy water, the words took him utterly by surprise. They went straight to his heart, a vice gripping the muscle until every beat was painful. _Mi amor…._ His fingers accidentally crinkled the corners of the pages, and he smoothed it out hastily before reading on.

 _I think of you every night, bedding down in those hotel rooms. They way you describe them makes them seem comfortable enough, but I worry about your sleep—and, with the way you snore, Ernesto’s as well._ He couldn’t help but smile, his lips twitching at the familiar banter. It was clear why she kept it separate, now. While the letter was from the family, filled with news and questions, this was something personal. This was his wife, speaking directly to him as her husband, not the head of the house.

 _I sometimes wonder if you think of me as often as I think of you. As busy as you must be, I doubt it. Probably you’ve got your nose in that notebook of yours, writing new songs to keep your familia happy. Just don’t forget about your familia at home, too._ How could he? Not a single night went by that he didn’t yearn for them, wishing that he was at home in his sleeping house instead of at a hotel where people snored and screamed through the thin walls no matter what the hour.

 _I think of your arms around me and the night grows even colder. I’m afraid I’m going to start forgetting what it feels like to have you beside me in bed. I miss your warmth, the way you feel when you hold me to your chest, the sound of your heart against my ear._ He missed it too, so acutely that he often wondered if it’d be less painful to rip his heart out of his chest and crush it beneath his boot. He’d lost count of the sleepless nights where he’d clutched the thin hotel pillow to his chest, trying to imagine that it was his little wife. The size was almost the same, but Imelda was warm flesh and love, not an emotionless sack of goose feathers in serious need of plumping.

_There are things I want to say to you, things I wish I was bold enough to write on paper. But I know your friend: his curiosity is as big as his head, if not bigger. I wouldn’t have him—or anyone else—reading things I meant for your eyes only. But even if I could write them, I can’t see you blush when you read them. Imagine them for me, mi corazón, and hopefully your mind can do us both justice._

He did imagine, but not what she might have said. She was right; without her there to say them, whispering in his ear and tickling his throat with her breath, it meant little. Instead he thought of her, sitting along and writing by the light of her little gas lamp, listening for any sound as she drafted out what she wanted to say. Her face, darkening in embarrassment as she put her pen to the paper, trying to write out something brazen, and then taking it away again before the ink had time to blot the page.

_Think of me, when you have a moment. Imagine that I’m with you, lying beside you the same way I envision you here by me. Maybe if we both think of it at the same time, we can feel each other? Surely a part of my soul is with you, even now—I feel that it’s missing, when my heart aches. It must have gone with you on the train, to keep you company and remind you that I’m waiting. Do you feel it? You, el amor de mi vida, do you feel the same way? Did you leave something with me? You must have; otherwise, why would I think of you at the oddest times?_

Oh, his sweet, beautiful, lovely Imelda…. She was thinking of him. She missed him just as much as he missed her, no doubt. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind, like a tickle in his throat, reared its head. It was happening more and more lately, a tiny, but swiftly growing thought that he shouldn’t be reading these things in a letter. He should be there, hearing and seeing them firsthand, laughing about the twins and helping Coco to write her name and… and holding his wife.

 _Think of me…._ How could he not? She was more than the love of his life, she _was_ his life. She and Coco were the reason he was doing this. Playing for the world was one thing, but it was that money, wrapped carefully in the letters, that kept him on the road. If he could make it, just to that big break Ernesto kept talking about—oh, the things he’d give them!

Coco would never know hunger, she’d never know what it felt like to swallow saliva and pretend it was soup, to scavenge in a war-torn world for something, _anything,_ and settling for filling your stomach with soil and a few scant, rotten vegetables. She’d have more than that old rag doll Imelda had made for her; she’d have real dolls, porcelain and wax, with curly hair and eyes that opened when you picked them up. She’d have dogs and cats and a canary bird that sang, lace petticoats and flounced pinafores and all the best from the States and Europe.

And Imelda—never again would she have to bend over a washtub or break her back lifting a cord of firewood. There would be servants to do that, and her hands would grow soft and sweet like any fine lady’s. She’d have new hair ribbons for every day of the week, and she could dress in fine silks or linens that she’d only dreamt of. Their bed would take up an entire room, full of the softest pillows and bedclothes fit for a queen. She could have anything she wanted at the ring of a bell, and anything she desired he’d scour the world to find for her.

_I’m waiting for you, always. Know that you’re in my heart and my thoughts, mi amor. I love you, a thousand thousand times. I’d fill the paper with it if I had the time, over and over. Sing a song or two for me._

_-Your Imelda_

_My Imelda._ His. Waiting for him. Wanting him. He pressed the page to his face, inhaling the stale scent of ink and pressed paper. If he could only smell her there too, the warm fragrance of the kitchen, sunlight and hen’s eggs, lye and hot water. When he had extra money, he’d buy some city soap, soft and white, the kind that smelled of flowers and honey. He’d send it to her somehow, and then he’d know that she smelled as lovely as she was, an undercurrent of roses beneath the day’s housework and her own sweet, feminine aroma.

  _Imagine that I’m with you, lying beside you the same way I envision you here by me._ He read over the line again, sighing forlornly. He didn’t want to imagine. He wanted it to be the truth. He wanted her here, dressed for bed, the long rope of her braid tickling his chest. He wanted her hand running over his jaw, tracing an outline as she brushed her fingers across his lips. He wanted to feel, and be felt in return. No, he didn’t want it—he _needed_ it, longed for it, craved it with every fiber of his being.

He lay on his back, eyes closed. He hadn’t bothered dressing, knowing that he wasn’t in the mood to go out that night. He’d torn off his shirt the minute they’d closed the hotel door, fanning himself against the heat of the afternoon. He and Ernesto had seen each other naked nearly all their lives, and neither of them felt the awkwardness that some did about baring their bodies around each other.

He trailed his fingertips over his chest, trying to mimic the sensation of her hair. It wasn’t the same, but the light brushing over his nipples and diaphragm sent a shiver down his spine all the same. With the noise just outside the door it was impossible to imagine that he was at home; instead, he brought her here, into the room. She sat on the side of the bed, somewhere near his legs, and watched him. Her eyes could sometimes be hard and unyielding, but right now they were soft, and curious, and focused entirely on him.

He moved to his stomach, tracing the furrowed dip that outlines his navel on either side, the rise of his hips, across to the soft line of hair beneath his navel. In his mind she reached out too, her fingers tracing ticklish circles over the concave dip of his stomach. He’d never been able to gain any body fat, and when he thought of her teasing him the skin became just as sensitive as if he’d been touching between his legs. The thought of it made him twitch, his trousers tightening as they began to tent in the middle. _Mi amor_ ….

“’Melda,” he mumbled, startling himself. His eyes flew open, darting around the empty room. For just a single second, he thought that she really _was_ there. But of course she wasn’t; it was his imagination. She was at home, in Santa Cecelia, probably starting on dinner while Coco ran laps around the table, watching the twins through the window as they cut firewood in the backyard.

He thought of her body, highlighted by the sunbeams shining through the window. Her hips tilted to one side, shifting her weight as she stirred something on the stove. Her lithe frame, draped in her favorite color, her hair hanging down her back—or maybe tied up, she kept it more and more in a bun like her mamá’s, now that they were married. A picture of domesticity, at war with the independent fire in her eyes.

He wanted to shoo Coco into the yard, to grab her by the hips and surprise her. To kiss the back of her neck, grinding into her from behind, her plump softness cushioning him. To hear her soft moan, the hiss between her teeth as she tried to keep it quiet, her murmured complaints that it was too early, that someone would see them, that her mother was in the next room. And, all the while, her hands holding his flush to her hips, a surefire sign that she didn’t _want_ him to let go. It was all just talk, the propriety her parents had hammered into her as a Christian daughter of good standing.  

He loosened his trousers, giving into the need starting to burn in his lower stomach. Ernesto wouldn’t be back for hours, if until dawn; their next set was a night show anyway. He shook his head slightly, trying to call her memory back to his side as he shimmied his pants down to his knees. He gathered his saliva, working his jaw until he had enough to wet his hand from wrist to fingertips. He hated the wet, muscly feel of his tongue against his fingers, but it was a better alternative than just spitting directly into his palm. 

Making a fist, he tried to roll into his palm the way he would have entered her, had she been here. It wasn’t at all the same, stretching past the limits of his imagination. Her body was welcoming, warm and wet, her thighs pressed into his hips as she wound her legs around him to hold him as close as possible. This was just his hand, damp and cooling with his own spit, just slick enough that he didn’t chafe himself.

 _Mi amor…_ She laughed softly, taking pity on him. _Let me?_ He tried to relax into the bed, his hand becoming hers. Maybe both her hands, rather—her fingers were so small and so slight, they could hardly measure up to one of his own. He let her take over, keeping his eyes closed so that the emptiness of the room couldn’t pull him away from the world he created in his mind.

 _You’ve missed me, haven’t you?_ Her grip was soft, feeling her way up the shaft with just the pads of her fingers. _You’ve missed this, the way I handle you. You never ask, but I know you want me to touch you like this._ Of course he didn’t ask, he wouldn’t debase her by putting her in any unladylike situation, even with him. _You like it when I take you in my mouth, but I think you like this more, don’t you?_ It was true, he did; when she used her hands she could still kiss him, still answer him when he called her name.

She ran her thumb over his head, a slow circle that left him gasping. Then, before he could recover, tinier circles just beneath, teasing the underside until he arched up. He tried to muffle his cry, the sound coming out as a throaty whine. She never moved as fast as he needed her to, a sly smile on her face. _Does it feel good, when I do that? I wish I could feel it. I’m so curious to know what it’s like…. But it does feel good, doesn’t it?_

“ _S_ _í_ , so good,” he encouraged her, breathless. He couldn’t stop his hips from bucking into her hands, trying to find the friction he knew he needed. She could tease him like this for hours if she wanted to, merciless, almost cruel, with that sweet, chaste expression that had him forgiving her every time no matter how long she made him suffer. “ _Me encanta…_ Imelda….”

_More?_

“Don’t stop, don’t— _ah_ —”  She stroked him now: long, intense, with just the right amount of pressure. His head fell back to the pillow, eyes screwing shut against her triumphant smile. Then shorter, looser strokes that teased more than anything else, tickling and fondling until the tears nearly came to his eyes. He shuddered under her touch, winding his hand in his hair and pulling just for the grounding pain on his scalp. His heel hit the mattress with a solid _thump_ , hips rising off the bed as he chased her hand.

Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore she swapped back, her hand running from the base of his shaft to his head and over it, fingers growing slick from the drops of precum. He jerked and cursed, his grunts and sighs filling the room and the springs squeaking every time they jammed into his spine. His entire body was tensed, sweat beading on his forehead that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. He crumpled the letter against his chest, over his heart; a crease scratched against his nipple as he moved, sending little shocks straight to his groin.

“’Melda, _por favor_ … ‘Melda-a—” He was so close, muscles starting to spasm in the seat of his pelvis, legs shaking. Her hand tightened, squeezing to the point of roughness. She massaged under the head once more, harder and faster until he was unable to think, back bowed off the bed and body tight until his calves were nearly cramping with the effort.

One final stroke and he was gone, her name a hoarse cry that scratched the inside of his throat. She kept her hands tight on his shaft, rubbing slowly as his feet slid out from under him. He hit the mattress with a grunt, white-hot spurts coating his hand and stomach. His entire body was loose and free, muscles breathing a sigh of relief. He swallowed, shivering as his hips jolted in their final spasming. _B_ _é_ _same, mi amor…._

He opened his eyes to find himself alone, semen cooling rapidly as it congealed at his navel. He sighed, not looking forward to the cleanup. Then, a moment of panic as he yanked the letter from his body, searching it over for any stains or signs of damage. It was, thankfully, unmarred; the few creases he made could be straightened out later.

He lay quietly, his breathing slowing as he collected himself. He thought of her, wondering if she knew. At his moment of completion, had she somehow heard him? Could she feel his heart call for her, pulling against the body it inhabited? Was she now thinking of him, wondering at the suddenness of it? Would she smile if she knew what he was doing with her letter, or would she try to pretend it was an affront?  

 _Imelda…_ He wanted to sleep, to dream of her, but he knew that it had to wait. Ernesto _would_ find him resting, but not half-naked with dried fluids on his chest and his hand on his cock. That would be a little too much, even for close friends. As he sat up, a sudden pang of homesickness nearly wrenched him from the bed. Everything was hideous—the stupid hotel room, the damn bedsprings, his empty arms and his aching heart. He couldn’t handle much more of this. Either they got their break, or he was taking a break.

_I have to go home…. I just have to._


	5. Day 5: Blowjob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Blowjob  
> Biker!AU  
> Imelda gives her husband a taste of his own medicine.

“You’ve been very cruel; you know that, don’t you?”

“—‘Melda… _por favor_ ….” He was already mewling, hips arching in a desperate search for her body. She ignored his desperate whine, her hand sliding slowly across the flat plane of his stomach as she watched him squirm under her. Coco was at school, her brothers were out in their shed tinkering with that stupid bike, and the shop was closed for lunch. She wasn’t in any rush.

“Leaving me alone for weeks, with nothing to keep me warm at night….” She trailed off thoughtfully, tickling the sensitive skin at his waistband. He bit back another moan, teeth digging into his lower lip. Her husband had such kissable lips, such a sweet mouth. She bent down, teasing him with the lightest pressure until he lifted his head from the pillow, trying to kiss her properly. She backed away, delighting in his frustration. “Lonely,” she whispered into his mouth, nipping at his lower lip when he sighed. “Cold…”

“Me too,” he protested, pouting. “I was lonely, too.” He grabbed her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, trying to force her hand down to the bulge in his pants. She made a noise in her throat and he groaned, but obediently let go. A part of her wanted to threaten to tie him up, but she stopped herself. It was more of a ‘punishment’ to make him take the matters into his own hands, to curse his lack of fortitude and mental discipline. If he couldn’t play nice and keep his hands to himself, she wasn’t going to bother with him.

“You were not.” She tickled beneath his chin, tracing a line over his Adam’s apple and down the column of his neck. One of his legs wound around hers, faded jeans chafing through the sheer fabric of her work hose. She murmured in warning—if he rubbed a ladder into her pantyhose she was going to be _pissed_ —but he only felt his way down her leg until the toe of his sock tickled the arch of her foot. She allowed it, regarding him coolly. “You were out partying with Ernesto. For two weeks you did nothing but tease me—”

“Tease you?” His expression smoothed into puzzlement, then confusion. His brow crinkled, gears spinning in his head; he was clearly thinking back along the past fortnight, trying to think of a time where he’d been teasing her. “I never—”

“When you called me,” she explained, letting her words slowly melt over him. He watched her face closely, frowning. “You called me,” she said again, her hand returning to his stomach, “and not once did you ever tell me that you wanted me.”

“I—well, I said that I _missed_ you,” he countered, voice dropping as he was again distracted by his thoughts. She dipped one finger beneath the waist of his jeans, rubbing a tiny line until his hips jerked impatiently.

“Missing and wanting isn’t the same.” She ran her other hand into his hair, petting the soft, messy locks. He and Ernesto had made the last leg of the trip with the windows down, and now his hair was a tangle of windblown knots. She couldn’t run her fingers through it without hitting snags, and so she settled with feeling the texture of it, the weight against his scalp. “I missed you _and_ wanted you.”

“I—um—” He shifted, hips bucking slightly when her finger ran even lower. He shoved his hands behind his head, reclining against the pillow; she didn’t need to feel his hand with her own to know that he was yanking at his hair, trying to keep the impulse to grab her at bay. “I did want you, I really did, but I didn’t know that you would want to he—”

“You know what was in my mind, just last night?” She was proud of herself for keeping her voice level, as though they were discussing the weather. A part of her was still flabbergasted that she’d even started this, not to mention that she was about to tell him… _that_. Her fantasies had always been her own, private daydreams that even he wasn’t privy to. Plus, Imelda Rivera didn’t _do_ dirty talk. It was… uncouth. And yet here she was, with her husband sprawled on the bed and her hand in his pants, acting like some sort of—of— _dominatrix—_

The realization nearly put her off the whole thing. She was a middle-aged woman, for God’s sake! She wasn’t some college cheerleader on her first forays into the adult world without mommy and daddy looking over her shoulder. Their sex life might have been _somewhat_ predictable, but it was varied enough that she was never bored! And he never said anything about it either, but… the way he was looking at her right now, startled and amazed and so in love—it made her feel _good_. Powerful, dangerous… sexy.

“What?” His hips shifted again, this time to get her attention back on him. _Well, as long as he’s not complaining… this is okay, right?_ She shivered, an icy chill settling in her stomach. Now that the first nagging doubt had appeared, others were rearing their heads. What if he laughed at her? Or, even worse, what if he shied away from her, repulsed at what she told him? “Imelda?”

“Oh! Um…” She cleared her throat, giving her head a little shake to wake her from her thoughts. Héctor smiled up at her from the bed, his sock still tickling her arch.

“Tell me,” he urged, a strange note in his voice. _Excitement,_ she recognized after a moment’s thought. It was the same note that crept in when he showed Coco how to read music, or actually managed to sew a straight seam on a piece of leather, or ran into the shop nearly jumping up and down because he— _he_ —was handpicked to win a prestigious songwriting award and _Imelda do I still have a suit I have to have a suit Ernesto said I have to have a suit oh I can’t believe it they really liked it they really did Imelda an award with my name on it and everything—_

That same excitement was in his voice, but he was thinking about _her._

“I thought…” She swallowed, trying to find her softer, duskier voice from earlier. “I was thinking of you, calling me in the middle of the night. Whispering in my ear how much you needed me, how you wanted me so badly….”

“It’s true, I do—”

“Everyone else was asleep,” she continued, ignoring his interruption, “and you told me to—to touch myself, you wanted me to touch myself so you could hear me.” His eyes widened, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“A-and?” He gulped. “Did you?” She leaned down, brushing her nose against his.

“I did,” she murmured, barely audibly. He had to have felt it on his lips more than heard it, but the shudder than ran down his spine fairly shook the bed. “I held the phone close so that you could hear every word.” He whined again, the pillow rustling as he tightened his hands in his hair.

She’d touched herself to that fantasy, wishing that it was the real thing the entire time. It had surprised her, how turned on she’d been by the thought of him telling her where to touch herself, getting off to the sound of her moans and coming all over his hand when she gasped his name in her own climax. She’d left a bruise from biting down on her own arm, teeth digging into the skin to keep from waking the house. She’d had to make a mess in the kitchen to explain it away, telling her brothers that she’d tripped and banged it up during breakfast.

“Imelda— _Imelda_ —” he panted, looking pleadingly up at her. “Next time,” he promised. “Next time I will, I’ll do it—” The very thought sent a thrill through her, a rush of warmth settling between her legs. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to relieve the ache with some pressure.

“What do you want, Héctor?” She took her hand out of his pants, her fingers—and her husband—protesting as she drew it back into the cool air of the bedroom. “Tell me what you want.”

“I—” He faltered, watching her carefully, and then something flashed in his eyes. “ _Quiero cogerte_.” Her heart thudded in her chest, stomach clenching at the thought. Not lovemaking, sweet and sensual, but _fucking_. A hard fuck, against the wall or even on her stomach, her hands pressing his pillow to her face to muffle the sound of her screams. Makeup ruined, hair a mess from being pulled, clothes wrinkled and maybe even torn, if he grew impatient enough. Just his tone left no doubt that her legs would be trembling for the rest of the day.

As delectable as that sounded, she _did_ have an afternoon shift to think about. She highly doubted Doña Lara would appreciate seeing her with smeared mascara and pillow marks on her face. And— _shit_ , Lucía was supposed to be by later! She could manage to look pristine and her best friend would still somehow find out that Héctor had outdone himself yet again.

“You just got through admitting that you _did_ tease me, and now you just want me to let you do whatever you please?” she asked, crossing her arms. He hemmed and hawed a moment, shifting on the bed with a half-shrug.

“Well—that is—I didn’t _know_ —I just—hmm.”

“I don’t think you appreciate what I’ve had to go through these past two weeks…” She reached for the clasp on his jeans, grinning when his entire body jerked at the first touch. “You had Ernesto to keep you busy. What did I have here, to distract me?”

“I—I don’t know, the s-shop, the—the— _ah_ —” She trailed her fingers over his boxers, her toes curling as she watched his head flop back against the pillow.

“Not good enough, Héctor,” she sang, tucking a curl back into her hairstyle. She licked her lips, tasting the matte of her lipstick as she tugged down the waistband of his boxers. “What _you_ need is a taste of your own medicine….”

“Imelda?” She didn’t answer, giving him one last look before turning her attention to the task before her. Wetting her lips, she tucked one of his legs around her waist, her bare feet slipping against the hardwood floor. Half-reclining, she winked before leaning down and licking him from base to tip, unable to stop the smug grin from twisting her lips as he fell back with a hoarse cry.

“ _I- **mel** -da—_” His hands slapped against the mattress, long fingers digging into the sheets.

“Does it feel good, being teased?” She blew softly on the damp skin, feeling his leg tense around her stomach. His cock jumped, goosebumps raising the hair on his arms. Another lick, slower this time, had his heel digging into the small of her back.

“ _Por favor, mi amor_ —” he gasped, sweat already standing on his forehead. “Not like this, _please_ —”

“Maybe next time you’ll spare me a thought, won’t you?” Her tongue traced his slit, chuckling softly when he clapped a hand to his mouth. “Keep quiet, won’t you? I don’t want my brothers knowing what their sweet sister gets up to in here.”

“We have a kid!” he moaned, hips rocking against the hand on his shaft. “They know!” She smiled, kissing his inner thigh as she pressed a palm to his stomach. “Imelda, come _on_ —”

“Two weeks, Héctor,” she muttered, looking at him from beneath her lashes. “I’m paying you back for two whole weeks.” She let him get one ragged breath in before closing her lips around him, sucking in just enough to hear his strangled curse. The muscles in his pelvis were already jumping beneath her hand, one leg kicking restlessly at the sheets while the other kept her body as close to him as he could.

She slowly began pumping her hand, letting her tongue tease the sensitive skin beneath his head. This wasn’t her _favorite_ thing in the world to do; too messy, for one, with her own spit dripping down onto her hand and his penchant for informing her a little too late when he was about to make a mess. But there was a certain joy in the act, seeing his head thrown back in pleasure and getting to hear him begging her for more. He was about as vulnerable as a man could be, completely at her power and more than willing to let her call the shots. _That_ was enough for her to begrudge him a little cleanup.

She was so focused on keeping his hips down that she didn’t notice his hands move. Before she could say a word fingers were digging lightly into the side of her head, smoothing over the neatly combed bun as he angled her better. She looked up sharply, but softened at the helpless expression on his face.

“Please,” he whispered faintly, hips jumping as he both tried to move and tried to stay still for her. “Just let me have this, please, just—I have to have something to—” She hummed warningly, feeling the vibration run all the way down him. He hissed, his pleas lost on another moan. She let him have it, rolling her eyes before taking him in just a little deeper. She’d never been able to do like some women, relaxing her throat to take him in completely, but he’d also never seemed to care. He was already coming apart slowly, panting as he steadied her head against his muted thrusts.

She timed herself with a sense of pride, bringing him to the brink before stopping, pressing light kisses over his shaft and thighs until he was shaking. He was too easy to read like this, his muscles jumping in his thin frame, his toes rubbing against her spine every time they curled. She teased him long enough that his entreaties became thinly veiled threats, promises that she’d get everything that was coming to her; she doubted he even knew what he was saying at this point, his teeth clenched as he vowed to get her back and make her beg him for release.

She really, _really_ hoped he was serious about that.

“Had enough?” She glanced at the clock, noting that she still had fifteen minutes to clean up before going back for the afternoon shift. He glared at her silently, chest heaving and covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“You don’t play fair,” he finally managed, his voice husky with shouting.

“Took you long enough to notice.” She dipped her head, stopping only when his fingers tugged at her chin. “Hmm?”

“Can you—” He stopped, blushing hard.

“What?”

“S-swallow—ah, never mind….” She stared at him, waiting until he fidgeted under her eyes. “I just wanted… really… to see…. if you don’t want to, that’s fine—” She said nothing, blinking once before taking him in her mouth once more. “Ah— _shit_ —Imelda!”

She worked to finish him off this time, her hand sliding easily through the damp spit and tongue lapping at his head, tasting the first bitter drops of precum. She let the flavor settle there, mingling with the remains of her toothpaste, and heard her heart in her ears. He moaned something incomprehensible above her, a dull _thunk_ as his fist hit the headboard before tangling in his hair.

 _It’s a little too late to tap out now, mi amor_.

“A—n-no, _n-n-n_ —‘ _Mel_ —” She’d done this enough by now to know that was all the warning she was going to get. She sucked down one last time, tongue dragging over him as he finally arched into her with a shout. She closed her eyes against the first spurt, pooling at the back of her throat. He choked out a breath, body relaxing as his hips gave their last few jerks.

She pinched his thigh, a little yelp escaping his open mouth as he looked down. She shot him a triumphant look, gathering everything in her mouth together before swallowing it with a gulp. He gaped, a flush still coloring everything from his chest up. Then, before she could even say a word in her favor, his hands cupped her jaw on either side. He yanked her up by her cheeks, jamming their mouths together in a sloppy kiss before rolling her beneath him.

“No, Héctor, my clothes!” She slapped at his chest, blushing.

“ _Te amo_ ,” he mumbled, still lost in his afterglow as he kissed over her face. “ _Me encantas, mi corazón, mi vida, mi amada—_ _que linda, que maravillosa_ —”

“I’ve got to get back to work!”

“Like this?” He leaned up, his mouth smeared the same shade of purple as the marks she left on his cock. _That bastard._ He’d done that on purpose, messing up her lipstick just to screw with her. His eyes twinkled mischievously, hair standing on end in all directions. She could feel loose tendrils of her own hair tickling her neck, worked out of her orderly bun by his fingers.

“Of course not. I’m going to go get cleaned up right now.” She made to rise, his arms pulling her back down. “Héctor!” His leg looped back over both of hers, trapping her as he bared his teeth in a grin. “I’ve got to go!” she repeated, shoving at his chin.

“Alright, alright. Go.” Again she got up, again he pulled her back down to the mattress.

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_!” One finger landed on her nose, her eyes crossing as she tried to see it.

“But.” He tweaked it before moving down, tapping a rhythm on her lower lip. “Tonight, you’re going to wish you’d been a little nicer to me. After all… you said it yourself.” It was enough to send shivers all through her, stoking the fire already burning in her belly. In the right light, his grin almost looked hungry.

“I can be a very… _cruel_.”


	6. Day 6: Clothes Getting Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Clothes Getting Off  
> Modern!AU 
> 
> Héctor insists that he can do a far better striptease than that stupid movie. (Spoiler Alert: he's not half-bad.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually supposed to be a lot longer, but I got really bad writer's block out of the blue. It might have had to do with a lack of sleep... anyway here's the best I could manage for Day 6! A small hurdle, but just finishing something gave me a little confidence boost!

“Héctor, _stop_!” It might have been the liquor, or the stupidity of the movie, or maybe just the relatively untamed joy of being alone with her husband for more than ten straight minutes at a time. But whatever it was, Imelda was unable to stop laughing long enough to get her shoes off. Another series of giggles burst from her red lips as he flicked on the bedroom lights, spinning on his heel to smile coyly at her over his shoulder. “I mean it!” she snickered, one hand over her mouth. “Behave yourself!”

“It’s all in the hips,” he repeated for the third time—a surefire sign that he was just as tipsy as she, if not more. His own hips did a little shimmy. “I’m telling you, I can put on a show _three times_ as good as whatever the hell that thing was.”

“It was a bad movie, that’s what it was.” She tottered slightly on her heels, squinting at the bed as the world seemed to rotate a little too quickly. Maybe it _was_ worth paying that Uber guy to drive them home, rather than saving the cash and taking their car. One of them would’ve had to be responsible otherwise, and it would have undoubtedly ended up being her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let Héctor press yet _another_ glass into her hand— _Coco won’t be home from that sleepover until 3:00 tomorrow, we’ve got time to party it up: let’s **live** a little, Imelda! _

“Sit down.” She fell to the foot of the bed with a laugh, loosing one of her heels. He grinned, swaying a little as he winked down at her. “I’m gonna show you how a _real_ man strips.”

“Ooh.” She smirked back up at him, toeing the front of his jeans with her stockinged foot. “Are you going to put on a show for me?”

“Only for you,” he promised, shifting his weight as he shrugged off his shoes and kicked them under the bed. The room was warm and sticky, but not entirely unpleasant—then again, she might have just been too inebriated to care. Everything was fuzzy around the edges, and she knew that she’d drank one too many; she was small, despite her fierceness, and it didn’t take a lot of alcohol to get her drunk. But every drink Héctor gave her was delicious, and came with a funny story that kept getting funnier the longer they sat at that smoky bar….

“I need some music,” he muttered, humming a few bars that she recognized as Eye of the Tiger. “I need something…” he clicked his tongue, shaking his hips as he thought. “What should I dance to?”

“I don’t care,” she laughed. “Make your own music. You _are_ the musician here, after all.”

“Gotcha.” He paused for a moment, gathering his wits, and then ran a hand through his hair. When he spoke, his voice was as low as he could possibly make it. “Are you ready for a hot time?”

“ _Claro que sí, señor_ ,” she cooed, crossing her legs at the knee and leaning back on her hands. He began a club beat, testing out the movements with his hips before grabbing the hem of his tee. They were both in casual clothing, a simple night out rather than anything fancy; their date had been to the movies, but the show was so bad that they’d left halfway through the chose a bar instead.

“Da dum, da-da-da, ay-y-y!” he sang, more to himself, pulling the shirt slowly over his head. “H-hey Imelda, _mira_ : I call this one “the limbo”.” He swung his arms over his head, ducking clumsily beneath the shirt with a roll of his spine.

“You’re going to stretch your shirt,” she warned, unable to stop the smile from stretching her face. He swung it over his head before letting go, snorting when it hit the window and landed on top of the cat. Pepita fought her way out from under the fabric before leaping off the dresser, her static-filled fur standing on end. She shot them a disapproving glare, whiskers twitching, and then stomped from the room with her tail straight in the air.  “Aww,” she clucked, kicking her foot in time to his wandering tune.

“ _Oye_.” She turned her attention back to him, arching a brow. He ran his hands down his chest, trying—and failing—to give a sensual-sounding moan. He looked at her through his lashes, thumbs hooking in the waistband of his jeans. “Like what you see?”

“Very much,” she agreed, crooking her finger. “ _Ven aquí,_ papí.” It wasn’t something she’d normally say sober—hell, it even sounded ridiculous when she was drunk. But he was being just as ridiculous, so it was only fair to level the playing field, right? And besides, there was no one but him around to hear her. He purred, tongue rolling as he sauntered to stand between her legs. “You don’t have a single tattoo,” she lamented, running a finger down his stomach. It clenched beneath her nail, skin warm and growing hotter by the minute, despite the lack of clothing. “Where would you want one?”

“Anywhere you choose, _mi amor_.” She leered, yanking him closer by the belt loops. His knees hit the edge of the bed, stumbling slightly and righting himself with a hand on her shoulder. She ducked, tugging down the waistband of his pants as far as his narrow hips would let her. She pressed a kiss firmly to the inside of his v line, leaving a faint red imprint from her lipstick. “Ay, kinky,” he teased, before a slightly more serious expression crossed his face. “Do you think if we took a picture, a tattoo artist really could—?”

“I don’t think that’s the best place to tattoo,” she retorted, tapping the imprint lightly. “It would probably hurt.”

“You think?”

“I’m guessing.” She didn’t need to be sober to know it wasn’t a good idea to get someone’s lips tattooed under his pants, anyway. It might cause some awkward conversations when he was an old man…. “Now, are you going to finish or not?”

“You know it.” He backed away from her, socks sliding on the hardwood as he twirled. “I can’t blame you, mi amor!” He danced in place a moment, not even bothering to strip; he was clearly having fun, just dancing along to whatever was playing in his head. “Impatient for a sight of _the_ best view in the world!”

“Oh?” She leaned back again, not caring enough to re-cross her legs. “And what’s that?” He grinned at her, twirling in the opposite direction and losing his balance. He nearly stumbled into the closet, righting himself at the last moment and shaking it off before slapping the seat of his pants.

“ _This_!”  He hummed proudly, rubbing his cheek before wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I see you staring,” he pointed out.

“Because you’re right in front of me?”

“I mean in the shop.” He slapped the other side, trilling a short grito. “And when I’m onstage!”

“I don’t _stare_.”

“You are _jealous_ , you are _jealous_ ,” he sang mockingly. “Because all those people get a look at this—but it doesn’t belong to them, no, no—”

“Héctor, you’re so ridiculous, _por dios_ —” It didn’t help that a small part of her had to admit he was… not _exactly_ right, but… kinda close. Those mariachi pants were a little tight, especially when he was dancing around in them onstage. But, she added to herself, it didn’t matter. They could look at him as much as they wanted, but at the end of the day he came home to _her_ , not them.

But he wasn’t listening to her, still humming aimlessly to his makeshift tune as he unbuttoned his pants. His hips swung once, snapping as he dropped his pants to his ankles in one swift move. She felt a muted shiver run down her spine, biting her lip when he kicked them off and slid them across the floor with his foot. Standing in front of her, clad in only his boxers, she couldn’t deny it: he was sexy.

“How was _that_?” He put his hands on his hips, chest puffed proudly. “¿ _Muy guapo_ , eh?”

“You’re through?” She reached out with her foot again, pointing to his boxers with her toes. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Oh, this?” He ran his hands up his thighs, outlining his groin like it was some sort of amazing gift. She rolled her eyes, waiting for whatever cockamamie explanation he was about to think up. Her Héctor was smart, but when he had that mischievous glint in his eye she knew to be on her guard. “This is a premium package, _mi corazón_. You gotta pay to get the private stuff.”

“Pay?” she repeated incredulously. “But I’m your wife!”

“Is someone _pouting_?” He smirked, running a hand through his hair.

“I am not,” she snapped, entirely aware that she _was_. “You can’t finish a striptease until you’re stripped. That’s the whole meaning of the word!”

“Aww, what’s the matter?” He stepped towards her, running both hands through his hair now in an effort to keep his bangs out of his eyes. She leaned back as he crawled on top of her, nuzzling his face into her chest before giving her _the look_. She hated the look; it meant he was _thinking_ , and in the bedroom that usually didn’t bode well for her. He was too darn inventive, and he used it to his advantage… especially when his inhibitions were unguarded.

“Héctor,” she warned, but it was already too late. He kissed her, one thumb stroking over her jaw; it was sloppier than she would have liked, but it sent a rush of heat straight to her core nonetheless.

“Did that turn you on?” he mumbled into her mouth, still grinning. “Are you wet?” _Not yet, but it wouldn’t take much at this point_. She pushed him back, trying again to level the field to her advantage. She wasn’t nearly as good as he was at the full puppy-dog pout, but she could still bat her lashes and make him regret ever denying her anything.

“ _Mi amor_ …”

“Hmm.” He nuzzled into the side of her neck. “You could always strip for _me_ , you know. I’ll take that as payment.”

“I don’t think so.” She shoved at his shoulders. “I’m too tired for that.”

“I did it for you.”

“You’re a foolish man.”

“And you’re my foolish wife.”

“Héctor…” she groaned. “I’m almost too tired for sex.” He sat up, looking at her with a frown. Even with his air headedness, he could recognize an excuse from a mile away.

“We could just be naked together. That’s something these new age couples do, right?”

“I don’t want—it’s embarrassing!”

“It is not! I just did it!”

“ _Hrng_.” She looked away, hating the blush that pooled in her cheeks. “I’m not drunk enough to do that,” she lied.

“Fine.” He buried his face back into her cleavage, winding his arms around her midsection. “We’ll just do this instead.”

“I do want to change into pajamas at some point….”

“Then strip, _mi amor_.” She sighed, staring blankly at the ceiling as he made himself comfortable on her chest.

 _We should have just sat through the movie._ One hand ran over his hair, petting as he quickly fell into a light doze.

“Héctor.”

“Hmm.” He screwed his eyes shut, kicking one leg over both of hers. “…not getting’ away,” he slurred. “Unless… do it. Payment.” She sat up as far as she could, the muscles in her back protesting as she looked down at him. Leg still dangled off the bed, along with both of hers. Her skirt was already creasing, and it needed to be taken to the dry cleaners. She scratched his scalp, letting her head flop back against the mattress and vowing to never go drinking with him again—at least, not without getting drunk enough to forget the night completely.

“…Do you take credit cards?" 


	7. Day 7: Dressed/naked (half dressed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Dressed/naked (half dressed)  
> Post-Canon
> 
> They say that age is only a number.

They say that age is just a number.

Who _they_ were, Imelda never knew. Her mother said it often enough, of course, and her tías, gossiping at _quinceañeras_ and weddings and even funerals. _They say age is only a number, after all._ As a child, she had never understood the saying. There was a grayness to it, something that didn’t match the black and white world she _knew_ existed. Adults were adults, children were children. Age had everything to do with it.

She thought, as a little girl, that the _quinceañera_ was something magical. Mamá had explained it as the day a child becomes a woman, but had only laughed when she asked _how_ it happened. In the back of her mind was a shadowy figure, an angel or fairy, something that snuck into a girl’s room the night of her fifteenth birthday and took away everything that made her childish. It stole the love of toys and dolls, games and running, and put in its place an affinity for housework and husbands.

Oh, if it were only that simple.

Of course, there was no magical fairies or benevolent woman-changing angels. The feelings of childhood never truly left, no matter how old she grew. A woman didn’t automatically love cooking—she loved her family, the people she cooked for. She didn’t have time to play with toys, not when there was housework to be done, animals to feed, clothes to sew and bruised knees to kiss. She knew that it was unseemly to run races or start fights in the street.

She knew not to do these things… but that didn’t mean those feelings weren’t there. She could still play with dolls—first with her daughter, and then her granddaughters. Once, when she was sure no one was looking, she even hopped across their abandoned hopscotch board in the courtyard. She had to bite her tongue so often against unruly customers that she was surprised a piece of it never fell off.

The older she became, the more respect she had for her own parents (may they rest in peace), and the elderly in general. She was an old woman, her back slowly hunching and arthritis keeping her up at night, unable to sew another stitch with her palsied hands. Still, a part of her mind remained that young woman, blushing with the bloom of her first love. She was seventy, but sometimes felt no older than twenty-seven… in her mind, at least. Her body was always quick to remind her just how many years she’d lived.

It was a blessing that, after death, the ailments of the body didn’t matter so much anymore. She could stand straight again, her hands didn’t shake, the frustrations and limits of the mortal coil were gone…. along with her skin and muscles, but that was a different story altogether. She gladly took her new, odd appearance if it meant she could gather her skirts and run down the alley behind her new shop—as long as no one knew, of course. 

Still, it wasn’t until Héctor’s return that she felt fully young again. Oh, she felt more like her mental age, it was true, but she was a mamá. She had joined the ranks of her ancestors, the women whose stern but loving hands guided the family for generations: _Mamá_ Marisol, _Mamá_ Isadora, _Mamá_ Imelda. It slackened somewhat around her brothers, who naturally saw her as a sister, but it was only with Héctor that she could truly feel young.

Maybe it was that he still looked young enough for the both of them. Age meant little to nothing in the Land of the Dead, so much as anyone was concerned. It was true that people who found romance after death tended to gravitate towards others in their same general age group. But she personally knew a couple who were both in their forties, with exactly 300 years between their death dates. Besides, barring terrible accidents, it was rare to find spouses who died the exact same day as one another. It was polite society to not ask any prying questions, but it was also fairly commonplace to include your relationship when introducing someone.

Death-Age, after all, was just a number. Or so they said.

Then again, he also acted his death-age sometimes. Héctor was mentally as old as she was, with decades of Land of the Dead knowledge to complement her Land of the Living, but it was no secret that he never truly grew up. While she hid some of her more immature feelings beneath a stern frown, he carried his emotions on his sleeve for the world to see. For the life of her, she could never figure out how he kept from getting embarrassed whenever he was caught doing something childish like jumping into the rain barrel from the roof or—worse—falling off a ladder trying to sneak into her bedroom instead of just _knocking on the front door like any other **thinking adult** would do—_  

While those times frustrated her to no end, there were also other occasions where his immaturity was… charming. He’d flash her that boyish grin, or try to startle her with an _alebrije_ snake (even _she_ could recognize a garter snake, and had merely let it wind aimlessly up her arm while Oscar shrieked).

Or when he pulled himself apart, all in an effort to make her smile. She’d never understood how he was so comfortable with letting his bones just go wherever they pleased. As a general rule, no one really… _disassembled…_ unless it was an accident or for their own safety. Julio had been known to fly apart when being bowled over, and her brothers had their fair share of accidents that left them confused as to whose bones were whose.

But they certainly didn’t take their own arm off to use as a back scratcher, or play the xylophone on their ribs with their femurs…. at least, not in public. Even she was mortified that time her hand was stuck in the junk drawer, and she’d had to sever at the wrist to get it out again. But he had no such qualms, coming apart and sliding back together so easily that, had she not seen it with her own eyes, she would have sworn he’d never had a flesh body at all.

Perhaps it was simply that, when they were together, she remembered.

She’d spent so many years burying those old feelings, the memory of being held and cherished by the man she loved. She tried _so hard_ to forget him, telling herself that any love she held for him was cold and dead. If he were to turn up on their doorstep, hunched and graying, she would have had as little pity for him as she might a stray dog—perhaps less.

It was for Coco’s sake, more than her own. If she avoided any topic of music, if she threw herself into her work every time that awful anniversary rolled around, if she set her jaw against any man bold enough to offer her flowers and promises… that was all for the good of her daughter. She didn’t love him anymore.

And if she froze at the scent of oranges and aftershave, if the sound of a sad guitar resonated in her very soul, if she heard a familiar laugh and half-turned despite herself, expecting to see a young man standing behind her—that was just momentary weakness, as were the tears lumping in her throat when she realized she was only being a sentimental _vieja_.

She had wanted to forget, which seemed to make remembering all the better. She didn’t have to shy away from the mention of her husband anymore; in fact, she was thinking about him more than ever, and it felt… exhilarating. To wake up to her beloved’s face, curled up warm and safe in his arms, was one of her new favorite things about her afterlife. All of his immature jokes, the disembodied hands blowing her kisses with their pinkies, the music, the laughter… it tied her past to her present, and for once it stretched indefinitely to the future. She never had to give this up, not so long as they were both loved and well-remembered.

Of course, he made her feel young in _other_ ways, too. Half the fun of youth was excitement, the discovery of new things, experiencing the world in a different way. She’d always balked at the old men with their new, fancy cars and expensive hair treatments, trying to stave off the reaper by pretending to be something they were not. They had no idea how ridiculous they looked with their beer bellies, graying chest hair curling from their collar beneath gold chains and more rings than they had fingers.

But… she could sometimes see the appeal.

“Do you _have_ to go?” Reclined like this, cradled in his arms, it was easy to _want_ to say no. If she was young and without a care, she would have agreed to stay instantly. But as much as his warm kisses melted the years, she was still… would always be… mamá.

“I do.” He grumbled, pulling her closer. Her pelvis was settled in the junction of his thighs, her skirts drawn to her knees and boots already laced. Still, she was only half-ready for the day; her hair curled over her shoulders, silver mingling with dulled black as it spilled into the empty gap of her torso. She wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup, her eyelashes so thin without mascara that, from the bed, her sockets looked bare in the vanity mirror.

“Don’t you have just a little time to spare for me?” he cooed, bending to kiss her shoulder. She leaned into the caress, her hands finding his at her waist, and felt his smile on her scapula.

“I suppose,” she teased lightly. In truth, she’d give every spare moment to him if she could. They had a century’s worth of quiet moments to catch up on, and so many more to make. She had no idea if they’d ever be able to break even; a part of her hoped not, just for the excuse to spend more time in his arms. “You _are_ very persuasive.”

“Am I?” His fingers slipped from beneath hers, cupping her bodice at they traced up her ribcage. She arched, sighing in contentment when his hand passed the low dip of her collar. She shifted against him, feeling his bare ribs against what little of her spine was exposed by the purple dress. He never wore a pajama shirt to bed, claiming that he’d grown too used to sleeping without his vest to bother with the confining fabric. “Does this mean I can persuade you to stay?”

“Mm… I can’t.” She relaxed further against him, her clavicle clacking lightly against his fingertips as it sagged. His free hand went to her jaw, turning her head just enough to watch her expression as his fingers dipped into her ribcage. A thrill ran through her when she felt his hand inside her, tickling the sensitive area just behind her sternum. “Kiss me?”

He did so eagerly, the arm around her waist clasping her flush with his chest. She embraced him as best she could, hand tangling in his hair as she swallowed his rumbling moan. It wasn’t quite as easy without anything to guide their faces into the right position, but they were quickly getting the hang of kissing without tongues or noses. If either of them moved too sharply their teeth could still smack together, but aside from a little jarring there was no pain. The sound, along with the soft clack of their hands running over each other, could even sometimes add to the sensuality of the moment.

“ _Quiero t_ _o_ _carte_ ,” he mumbled against her mouth. “Is there time?”

“Always,” she agreed softly, her eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bedside table. “If it’s quick.”

“Hmm….” He nuzzled into the space between her shoulder and jaw, his forehead pressing lightly against her hair. “I’d rather not be known as a quick lover,” he joked, reaching down to grab her skirts. She smirked, rolling her eyes as he pressed a kiss to her scalp.

“I won’t tell.”

“Promise?” Her skirts were at her knees now, fabric slowly winding to her waist by the handful. The feel of her underskirt, tickling her thighbones, had her hips shifting in anticipation. He paused only to press another kiss, this time to her cheek, before resting his forehead against her temple. She readily basked in the affection, nearly purring when he stroked her hair where it lay across her shoulder.

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_.” She loved saying his name. She’d went a hundred years without mentioning him once, and now she could say it whenever she wanted. She didn’t have to wait for those fleeting dreams, self-indulgence drawing her into his waiting embrace and holding him for as long as sleep would allow.

“ _Imelda_ ,” he answered, his body moving in tandem with hers. He watched her keenly, keeping his eyes open even to kiss her. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, adjusting her in his arms until he could rest her weight against his side. The compliment warmed her from the inside out, adding to the phantom heat burning between her legs. She smiled up at him, snuggling into the crook of his arm and draping one leg comfortably over his. He shifted, spreading her legs apart, and then his hand delved slowly beneath her skirts.

“So beautiful,” he repeated, whispering into her hair. His hand rested lightly on her arch, fingers spreading as if he wanted to measure her pelvis rather than stroke it. She lifted her hips, a silent plea for him to start, but he seemed content to just hold her there instead. “I love you so much.”

“Then show me,” she urged, resting her head on his chest. There was an empty, cold silence where his heartbeat should have been, but the sound of his breathing still—somehow—filled his chest with every inhale. “ _Ámame, mi amor_ ….”

“ _S_ _í_ , _te amaré_.” She couldn’t help but sigh in relief when he pressed down, a soft pressure on her arch. “Oh, _mi vida_ —” he breathed, shivering at the sound. “Sing for me.” His fingers traced small circles over the bone, dipping into the groove where the two halves met. Then, without warning, his palm rolled heavily down the center in a sharp movement that had her bucking up with a cry. “ _S_ _í, canta_ ,” he encouraged, his voice rasping as though he were the one being pleasured.  

“Héctor…!” She let her head fall against his shoulder, supporting her as she rocked her hips. Her hands fell to his thighs, squeezing through his pajama pants as the heels of her boots dug into the mattress. He looped his ankle around her leg, spreading them even wider as his fingers turned to the inside of her pelvis. She moaned aloud, the sound broken by a gasp when he pressed hard just inside her left ramus.

“You like that, right?” he asked, rubbing the spot until her knees curled towards her chest. “Right here?” She nodded, reaching out blindly and finding his wrist. She squeezed, crushing his fingers to her. He drew her closer in response, grinding against her sacrum as his knuckles brushed rhythmically up and down the ribs exposed by her bodice.

“That—that’s good,” she managed to say, her voice high and breathless. “Héctor, that’s—so good—”

“Harder?”

“ _S_ _í—_ ”

“Here?”

“ _S_ _í!_ ” Already she could feel it, muscles she didn’t have tensing, the empty space between her bones tightening, a cord drawn taunt. He really _was_ a fast lover, in the most perfect sense of the word. He paused, leaving her quivering on the edge, and she nearly cursed in frustration. “Héctor!” She didn’t want to beg—she wouldn’t beg, she—

“Héctor, _please_ —”

“Since you asked so nicely.” One solid thrust of his hips, the silk of his pajama pants slipping against her dress, one hand stretched across her chest to hold her still as the other rubbed both sides of her arch at the same time. Her head fell forward this time, hair a curtain around her face; her entire frame shook from the intense sensation, the pleasure almost painful. “ _Mi amor, mi amor_ ,” he crooned, fingers threading in the gaps between her ribs and collarbone.

“Ah— _ah—”_

“Such sweet music….” She was past thinking, her mind torn between whether to move forward, into his hand, or back against the solid weight of his body. It didn’t matter; his thumb and forefinger pinched the bone on either side, stroking with such a firm, steady pressure that she was over the edge and gone before she could decide. She melted, jaw snapping shut in an attempt to muffle the scream bubbling in her throat.

He caught her quickly, arms wrapping around her torso and kisses pressed down the back of her spine. She jerked in his arms, little spasms working through her body as the rest of her breath sputtered out in a long, contented sigh. Her eyelashes fluttered, little glimpses of the room, of his cheek as it rubbed against her own, his designs catching the morning light with flashes of color.

“A beautiful song.” He kissed over her eye sockets, then her forehead, lips lingering on the dusky swirls. “ _Mi esposita hermosa, mi musa_ …..”

“I’m glad you approve,” she murmured, fingers trailing along the designs on his cheekbones. She stretched against him, a tired little moan in her throat. If there hadn’t been work to do, she might have curled against him and gone back to sleep. Thankfully there was nothing to clean up, other than combing through her hair to get rid of the tangles he’d worked into it.

“With a voice like yours?” He grinned, gold tooth glinting. “How could I not?”

They said that age was just a number, whether in life or in death. She probably would never know just who _they_ were, but… she was inclined to agree. She was only as old as she felt, and right now?

She felt wonderful.


	8. Day 8: Skype Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: Skype Sex  
> Biker!AU
> 
> *a sort-of continuation from Chapter 5, although instead of Skype it's just a form of phone sex.*

“You’re just being quiet to spite me.”

“No, I’m not!” Imelda scowled, her back teeth grinding; she could _hear_ Héctor’s grin. “I’m being quiet because _your_ daughter will be climbing me like a tree if she figures out I’m talking to you.”

“Is that why you refused to video chat with me?” she retorted, leaning against the overstuffed hotel pillows stacked against the headboard. Her open laptop rested beside her, notes from the day’s workshops scattered in a neat semi-circle around a perfectly Imelda-shaped space of mattress.

“Exactly. I’m hiding in the bathroom,” he admitted. “You know how bad the lighting is in here. But it’s the only place I can get any privacy.”

“Welcome to my world.” Even as she said it, she knew she would rather be in his place. She didn’t like traveling, not like him. Héctor thrived on excitement and fun; he got his fill of both on the little musical excursions he took with Ernesto. She was too much of a busybody, tied to her home and business. It was more than just bossiness—the mamá part of her was a worried mess from the time she left home until the time she returned, even if it was just for one weekend. If the seminar in Mérida hadn’t been such a good deal, she would have turned it down easily.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Héctor… she just didn’t trust _H_ _é_ _ctor_. Oh, he could take care of himself, and there was no doubt in her mind that Coco would—at the least—be fed. But if the muse called and sent him into one of his creative frenzies… he was like a madman, running without food or sleep until he collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Without her there to bully him into taking a break, he’d make himself sick. Added to that was that leech of a man Ernesto, who’d eat all the food in the house and not bother to restock whatever he emptied. And the twins… well, they _meant_ well, of course, but their heads were so far in the clouds that she was amazed they heard her at all sometimes.  

“I don’t like your world,” he joked. His chuckles bounced off the tile, sending static through the phone. “When do you re—” He was interrupted by heavy knocking, loud enough that she jerked the phone away from her ear.

“ _Damnit_ Héctor! It’s been twenty minutes; what the fuck are you doing in there?!” Even with the door shut, the voice sounded as clear as if he’d been screaming right in her ear.

“Language!” Imelda warned, rolling her eyes. Honestly, if it weren’t for Héctor she’d have called the law to Ernesto long ago. It was bad enough that he showed up uninvited, but he never quite got the hang of censoring himself and they _did_ have a preteen. The last thing anyone needed was Coco getting an arsenal of swears to pull out when she fell into full-on teen angst mode. “Tell him.”

“Imelda said don’t say fuck in the house.” There was a pause, and then a loud groan.

“You’re really talking to your wife on the _can_? Can you honestly not be apart for more than ten minutes?”

“What does it matter? The point is, I’m busy.”

“Whatever, I gotta piss!”

“You can’t go in the backyard?”

“Oh, so I can’t say fuck but it’s okay to walk around with my pants hanging off my ass?” Imelda groaned, pressing a thumb to the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t even having to look at him, and she was _still_ getting an Ernesto-grade migraine. 

“Fine!” Héctor sputtered. “Go next door, then!” 

“Fuck that! Get out of the bathroom!”

“ _I’m busy!”_

“ _Fine_!” She heard his fist slam once more against the door, hard enough that she jumped in place on the bed. “Just… hurry up and finish! I’m not pissing myself because you’re in there jacking off to your wife!” 

“Oh, real nice!” Héctor sighed, the sound dangerously close to mimicking hers. “I’ll be out soon, just hold your horses!” She didn’t hear any more out of Ernesto, which meant he’d either taken the hint and left or… died. She couldn’t say which one she preferred. “Sorry…. You know how he is.”

“Héctor, it’s _your_ house. You can just, y’know, make him leave.”

“It’s really not that bad,” he assured her, his voice taking on that placating whine that she only associated with the dog-loving menace. “He’s been helping me out, keeping Coco busy—I mean, I don’t think he _wants_ to, but it’s more of a—” He was interrupted by a loud crash, muffled through the door. “What was that!?” Another pause, where he seemed to be listening. “Well, you know where the broom is! Clean it up!”

“Helping, huh?”

“That was Coco, not Ernesto….” He let out a low breath. “I’ve got everything under control, don’t worry.”

“I can see.”

“I mean it! I even managed to do the laundry without staining the whites this time,” he said proudly. “But I do admit… I think you handle _me_ leaving a lot better than I can handle _you_ leaving.”

“Héctor, it’s only been two days.” She couldn’t help but inject a little sarcasm into her tone. “And I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. _You_ leave for weeks on end.”

“I know, I know.” He paused. “I don’t have to—”

“We’ve talked about this before,” she reminded him, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder and picking at her nails. “I don’t mind you going, so long as you come home.”

“I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “And I always will.” They lapsed into silence, breathing into the phone with nothing to say. She couldn’t help but smile, reminded of their courtship days. They’d be on the phone with each other for hours, yet only say a few words. “You know… what Ernesto said—”

“That he was going to piss himself?”

“No, that I was jacking off in the bathroom.” Imelda snorted, clapping a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound.

“You _aren’t_ —”

“No, no!” He choked, coughing into her ear. “But I… uh… I couldn’t help but be reminded of…. Well.”

“Well, what?”

“Do you remember when I came home from tour?” She waited for him to clarify, but he left it at that.

“You’re going to have to be _way_ more specific, Héctor.”

“This last time! When you… uh….” She sat up, brow furrowing as she listened. Was he… was he _blushing_? She wished, yet again, that he’d been brave enough to bring his laptop into the bathroom. _Lighting, my ass._ He just hadn’t wanted anyone to know that he was going in there to be alone instead of using the facilities.

“When I _what_.”

“When you… are you going to make me say it?”

“Yes! I have no clue what you’re talking about!”

“When you—” his voice dropped an octave, whispering into the phone. “When you went down on me.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” How was she supposed to know that’s what he meant?! That tour had been nearly three months ago! She nearly opened her mouth to tell him so, but he was still talking.

“A-Anyway, you told me about this… uh, this dream? I guess? And I said next time I’m on tour I’d do it but… I mean, you’re gone and it’s… well, I mean… I’m locked in, so unless Ernesto decides he wants to replace our door—”

“What are you talking abo—”

“The dream! You asked me—well, you told me that you….” He broke off into mumbles, too low for her to hear. “…phone.”

“I can’t hear you, Héctor.”

“You wanted me to tell you what do on the phone,” he repeated, barely audible.

“On the—” _OH._

She’d nearly forgotten about that, too. Her fantasy, born of a lonely imagination and long, sleepless nights. Now that he mentioned it, she could remember in perfect detail how turned on it had made her… _and_ the excitement in his eyes when she recounted it for him, spread beneath her on the bed and listening with rapt attention.

“Yeah, that one. I, uh… I know I said I’d wait until I left again,” he added, his voice still low, “but if you wanted to, I’d like to try.”

“Right now?”

“Right now. Only if you still want to do it, though. We can wait.” She looked at her notes, the laptop still open on her bed, her unpacked suitcase waiting to be filled before checkout tomorrow. There were things she needed to do, things that probably ought not to wait until the last second. To her credit, she spared one tiny thought for Ernesto, wondering if he was still waiting for Héctor to leave the bathroom.

_Let him wait._

“Alright.” She startled herself, how easily she gave in. Maybe it was just because he’d piqued her interest, reminding her of her own fantasy. Or maybe she missed him more than she realized. Or… maybe it was just the excitement of it. They’d never done this before. A small shiver ran down her spine, just cold enough to raise the hair on her arms.

“Alright!” he agreed, and then faltered. “Er… so, how do you want to do this?” She smirked, biting her lip to keep from grinning too hard. Leave it to Héctor to find a way to make her order herself around.

“ _Mi amor_ ,” she answered patiently, when she was sure he wouldn’t be able to hear her silently laughing at him, “you’re supposed to be the one telling _me_ what to do. Not the other way around.”

“Oh. Right.” He laughed nervously. “Okay, um… wow. Okay. Uh… what I want you to do is… uh… tell me what you’re wearing?” It was clearly still a question, rather than an order. She let it slide, knowing that it would probably take him a moment to get used to the role. He wasn’t the dominant voice in their love life, after all; even if he took initiative, he always waited for her consent before going any further than mild petting.

“I’m wearing my pajamas.” She looked down at her crossed legs, stretch marks barely visible beneath the taunt fabric of her shorts. “More specific?” she prodded, when he remained silent.

“Please—I mean, yes.”

“A pair of red gym shorts and that free blue tee-shirt from the bar in Toluca.”

“Oh—wait, that’s _my_ shirt!”

“And?”

“And I’ve been looking for it everywhere!”

“Well, now you know where to find it… on me.” She rolled her eyes; why was he so offended? It’s not like he ever _wore_ the damn thing. “I’ve been using it as a nightshirt for the past month, have you really not noticed?”

“No, I guess not,” he pouted. “I wish you weren’t wearing anything at all.”

“Then tell me to take off my clothes.”

“I—take off your clothes.” She stood, a thrill running through her from head to foot like an electric current. Holding the phone with her shoulder, she stepped out of her shorts and panties before stripping off the shirt in one swift movement. Entirely naked, she paused only to shut the laptop and place it on the empty nightstand before settling against the pillows again.

“Okay, they’re off.”

“I know.” His voice had a strange, tensed quality to it. “I… I heard them.”

“And… now?”

“I—uh…. I don’t….”

“If you were here with me,” she cooed, delighting in the way his breath hitched at the words, “what would you do? Start there.”

“You, uh, you don’t have _anything_ on?”

“Nothing.” She shivered again, this time from the cold air against her skin. “I—I’m yours, Héctor.” There was something freeing, _exhilarating_ at the thought of being entirely under his control, even from miles away. She hadn’t felt this excited since… since _when?_ She couldn’t even remember. “Tell me what to do.”

“I would… um… run my hands over your stomach.” She slid her thumb over the speaker icon on her screen, his voice suddenly filling the room. She turned it down to a more acceptable level—didn’t want the other hotel patrons to be bothered, after all—and placed it beside her ear. It promptly slid down the stack of pillows, and with a muffled sigh she reluctantly stuck in on the mattress instead.

“Okay.” She closed her eyes, trying to picture the way his hands felt in her mind. If she imagined he was behind her, instead of the pillows, her hands would be turned the right way. She slid them down either side of her stomach, until she reached the junction of her thighs. Her hands were just as calloused as his, but they were smaller and… lacking, somehow. She rolled her thumbs, massaging little circles just beneath her navel, the way he often did when standing behind her at the kitchen sink.

“What do you feel?”

“I—” It was a strange question, one that made her think. “Warm… smooth, I guess?” _Fat._ “Curvy,” she corrected herself, knowing that he’d deny any insult she tried to make against herself. “Uh… there’s this weird line where my shorts were digging into my stomach….” He chuckled. “Not the sexiest, is it?”

“You’re sexy.” He paused. “Go up to your chest.”

“Alright.” She reversed, sliding her hands up until she cupped her breasts. She sometimes held them like this idly, for no real reason other than to warm her hands or have something to be doing. But it felt different now, maybe because she knew he was imagining that his hands were on them instead of hers.

“What are they like?” _Well, you know. Boobs._ She almost said it aloud, laughing to herself, but tried to think of something sexy to say about them.

“Warmer than my stomach. It’s nice to hold them.”

“Squeeze—I mean—” He coughed, clearing his throat. “I, er—”

“Say it, Héctor.”

“ _Oye_ , I’m supposed to be ordering you, not the other way around.”

“Then _please_ say it.” She shivered again. “Please?” she repeated, the hint of a whine in her voice. She knew what he was going to say; she _wanted_ to hear it.

“Squeeze… them.” She did so, a little too eagerly, letting out a little sigh of contentment. She’d never done this before, handling them on her own. That had always been his job—one he excelled at—but now she wondered what he’d do if she grabbed them while he was inside her.

“They’re soft,” she assured him, her voice smooth and warm. “But even though they’re small, they’re still too much for my hands.”

“They’re not small,” he contradicted sharply. “They’re the perfect size for _my_ hands, which are the only hands that should be touching them anyway.”

“I can’t touch my own boobs?”

“Well, _you_ can—”

“And the doctor?”

“Yes, yes.” He was getting impatient. “You and the doctor. But no one else, okay?”

“Alright,” she agreed calmly. Licking her lips, she added, “You know… I kind of like it when you get like that.”

“Like what?”

“Possessive.” She felt a spark flicker, deep in her stomach. “You don’t like the thought of anyone else touching me.”

“¡ _Por supuesto_! You’re mine!” He immediately gasped. “I mean—that is, not that you’re—”

“I _am_ yours,” she purred. “I’m all yours, and you’re all mine.”

“Imelda—” She heard him gulp; when he spoke again his voice was low, with an edge that immediately set her on fire. “Touch yourself, now.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you want… just tell me what you’re doing, I want to imagine—” He broke off, and she could see him in her mind’s eye, hunched and blushing, chewing his lip.

“Will you… touch yourself, too?” she asked shyly.

“Really?”

“ _S_ _í_ , I—I wish you were here.” She slumped, pillows digging into her back as she sagged against the headboard. “I want you.”

“I want to be there,” he murmured. “I want to be inside you.” She heard his zipper, faint metallic against the hoarse rush of his breathing.

“I want that, too.” She spread her legs, knees bent as her hand crept between her thighs. “I… I’m already….”

“Wet?”

“Yes.” She heard him shudder.

“Hang on, I’m getting the— _ocupado!_ ”

“What are you _doing_ in there?” Oscar, now.

“I’m a little busy!”

“You’ve been in there over half an hour!”

“ _PLEASE-GIVE-ME-SOME-PRIVACY-THANK-YOU_!” He scowled, cursing under his breath. “ _Hnn_ … there—”

“Héctor?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “They can wait. I’m only thinking about you right now.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m at the hotel with you—I don’t even care what it looks like, I’m just pressing you into the bed— _Imelda_ —”

“ _S_ _í_ , _mi amor_.” She arched, her fingers slipping inside with ease. She pressed against her walls, her eyes screwed shut as she tried to imagine they were him instead. “I’m touching myself,” she whispered, a deliciously wicked feeling curling through her with the words. “I can’t go as deep as you can; you’re so much better than anything I could ever do—” He groaned, the sound muffled by something: his hand? his lips?

“Harder,” he hissed, and she could hear the wet, rhythmic sound of his hand on his cock. “Go harder.”

“Anything you say.” She obediently pressed down more firmly, her palm rolling against her sex with every thrust of her hips. She let a moan escape, hearing him answer with one of his own as they chased their pleasure. “I’m already… close…”

“A little longer,” he pleaded, “just a little— _fuck off_!” he snapped, too low for whoever was at the door to hear him.

“I can’t wait anymore,” she urged, even as a voice in her head protested. _You have to, he told you to wait, you can’t if he’s not ready._ “Héctor, _por favor_ —”

“A little longer!”

“Héctor!”

“Just—a— _aa—_ ”

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_!”

“Okay! Okay, okay, okay!” She ground down hard on her fingers, heels pressed into the mattress as she felt the taunt pressure give way. She didn’t bother muffling her cry, hips rising completely off the bed as her head fell back, partly in relief. She heard him bite down—on his fingers, most likely—and a series of broken gasps and groans that she knew to be his own release. “ _Ay_ … shit.”

“What?” She stared at the ceiling, finding patterns in the being shadows as she blinked the stars from her eyes.

“I made a mess and— _por Dios, I said give me a minute!_ ”

“…Papá? I really gotta go.”

“ _Sh_ —just a minute, _mija_ , I promise!” She heard him scrounging, a hasty re-zipping. “Imelda—”

“Go, Héctor.”

“But—” She cut him off with a laugh, giddy from her afterglow and more than amused at his frustration.

“I know. _Go_.” She stretched out her legs, muscles protesting after being tensed in one position so long. Did he honestly not think she understood? He was only getting a small taste of what she dealt with every time he left on tour. “We’ll just pick this back up tomorrow afternoon.”

“…Are you sure?”

“Héctor, I’m serious. _G-o._ And you better have that floor mopped tomorrow.”

“Fine, fine… it’s a date?”

“It’s a date.”


	9. Day 9 and Day 10: Against the Wall, Doggy-Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 and Day 10: Against the Wall, Doggy-Style  
> Toymaker!AU 
> 
> No one likes a catcaller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: some of the following language is offensive and derogatory, but given circumstance and time period…. Well, you were warned

“Hey baby!”

Imelda paused, half-turning at the first drunken whistle and deciding against it. One hand fisted in her _rebozo,_ drawing the basket of vegetables closer to her side. She hated walking near the tavern at this time of day, when the last rays of sunset were fading too quickly into dusky twilight. The windows lining the street created small halos of golden light, but not enough for her to feel comfortable. Not that she was _frightened_ of the hammered idiots lounging around outside the bar’s open doors; she just didn’t like hearing the crude things they said so brazenly, and within everyone’s hearing.

“What a fine piece of work _she_ is.”

“I’d like to take her home… if I could find a way to get rid of my wife!”

“Sweetheart, where you goin’?”

“Stay and talk awhile, cutie!”

She pressed her lips tightly together, nose in the air and jaw clenched as she hurried along the street. She didn’t have time to tell off a bunch of drunks; besides, there was little she could do. Those men weren’t the type to listen to reason… or women. And from the sound of it, there were more than enough to overpower her. It was better to turn the other cheek, for her own safety if nothing else.

“I _said_ : where are you goin’?” A hand clapped on her shoulder, spinning her around effortlessly. Startled, she clutched her purchases to her chest and gaped up at the barrel-chested ape grinning stupidly down at her. He swayed, bloodshot eyes lingering everywhere she didn’t want them to. “C’mere, let me buy you a drink.” She glanced behind him, seeing nothing but empty road from the bar to the plaza. She was on her own. 

“ _No gracias_ ,” she replied curtly. “I’m expected.” She turned, only to be yanked back by the wrist.

“I insist.” He leered, two rows of rotten teeth gaping down at her. At the bar, his buddies elbowed each other with barely-muffled laughs. With a violent effort, she wrenched herself free; even with all her strength, she only wiggled out of his meaty fist because he was caught off guard. A trickle of sweat ran down her spine, dread settling in her stomach as she looked for the nearest escape.

“And I refuse.” She took two steps back, slipping her heel out of her boot. If he tried to touch her again, he could have a face to face meeting with the broad side of her shoe. It would distract him enough to get some headway. If it was daylight, or a crowded street, she might have been bold enough to tell them off; however, his four friends were clearly willing to back him up, and her self-preservation was more powerful than her quick-trigger tongue. “I have a _novio._ ”

“So? I have a wife.” The man laughed, harder than he should’ve. “He ought to do a better job of keeping his girl at home after dark.” The others chuckled along with him, their eyes undressing her from across the street. A tallish one, wearing a cowboy hat, winked at her. Beside him, a pudgy shrimp of a man was nearly drooling, sitting backwards on his chair. A third flexed his steel cut biceps, licking his lips slowly as he openly stared at her chest.

She took another step back, glaring up at the first man with full force. If he had any sense, he’d just go find someone else to bother. But the fact was that she was alone on the street, and there _was_ no one else.

“If that’s true, then you’re a despicable waste of space.” _Stop, stop while you’re ahead,_ the little voice in the back of her mind implored. But her voice was loosened, and she couldn’t help but add, “Leaving your family at home just to go around bothering women and breathing in their faces. Go fuck one of your friends, if you’re that desperate.” She bit her tongue, wincing; that sort of talk was going to get her killed one day. It wasn’t the sort of thing a woman of polite society was supposed to say, or even know _how_ to say. She could almost feel Mamá rolling in her grave.

The man blinked at her, liquor slowing the words so that they took a moment to sink in. She watched the recognition light up his watery eyes, which darkened in anger. She quickly hopped the rest of the way out of her boot, scooping it off the ground and gripping it in her fist. The men roared with laughter, falling off their seats as she brandished it threateningly.

“Oh, one of _those_ bitches, huh?” He drew himself up to full height, and she had to admit that the lump in her throat was built of fear. He could easily snap her over his knee if he tried, and the way he was lumbering towards her… he might have been big and drunk, but he made up for it with speed. “I think someone ought to put you in your _place_ : don’t you, boys?”

“Get her, _gordo_!”

“Wait!” Imelda felt a flutter of hope, only to see the lecherous sneer on the tall man’s lips. “Drag her back this way, so we can all get a piece!”

“Yeah!” the short one chimed in.

 “Good idea!” the man agreed, lips curling over his blackened gums. “She’s too good-looking to have all to myself. I should be _generous_.” Imelda felt her heart skip a beat, eyes darting to where the others had started to stand up from their chairs as well. Their expressions were all the same: predatory, hungry… _anticipation_.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you slimy son of a—” If she screamed, would anyone come out to help her? This was the seedier part of town, after all; they probably saw much worse than a single young lady being accosted on the street. If it wasn’t a shortcut back to her own road, she would have never been here at all… _I’m never taking this shortcut at night again,_ she vowed. She’d go around by the river if she had to.

_Clap!_

Imelda jumped, thinking at first that it was a gunshot. The sound echoed between the buildings, startling a flock of birds pecking around an empty stall. They flew into the air, a fluttering mass of dark feathers against the orange sky. The men turned, looking down the street with puzzled expressions; Imelda peered around her attacker’s shoulder, trying to see what—or who—had caused such a noise.  

Standing there, his palms flat together, was Héctor. Imelda’s heart skipped another beat, this time in relief and joy. He was clearly taking the same shortcut she was, his bag slung across his narrow waist and pencil tucked behind his ear. He wore a disapproving frown, looking from the bar to the men and back again. It was clear that, seeing something was happening, he’d clapped to get their attention—his version of hallooing, since he was unable to speak.

“Héctor!” she called, feeling a warmth spread through her chest at the sight of his sweet face. Of all the people to come walking her way, her boyfriend was one of the most welcomed in her eyes. He gaped when he saw her, brows arching comically and mouth falling open, hands falling to his sides. So he hadn’t known it was _her_ being harassed; he just heard a girl fighting on her own and sought to intervene on her behalf.

Her heart dropped into her chest when the shock left his face, expression clouding in visible fury. Teeth clenched, hands rising to grip the strap of his bag; she could see the thoughts racing across his face without him having to sign a single one.

“Oh, lookie here!” The man laughed, pointing at him. “Look boys, it’s _el retrasado_!” The others howled with laughter, the cruel sound echoing up and down the empty street. “You’re just in time, fella!”

A flash of rage colored her cheeks, fist squeezing the life out of her boot. _How dare they!?_ Héctor didn’t seem to notice the slur, his eyes locked on her as he briskly made his way up the street. His bangs flopped with every crooked step, mouth set in a thin line.

 “Hey, don’t have anything to _say_ to us?”

“Hey, look at me! I’m talking to you!”

“Wha’zza matter? ¿ _No comprende_?”

“Héctor,” she repeated, whispering now. Even with the two of them, they were still outnumbered by three. The others continued to laugh, mimicking his gait with their own drunken staggering. The ringleader beamed across the street at them, eyes twinkling.

“Ha!” He turned back to her, his mouth still stretched in a grin. “Hey, girly: is _this_ your lover?” he jeered. He clearly expected the question to humiliate her, shamed at the thought of intimacy with someone he saw to be subpar. She puffed out her chest, shoulders thrown back, and looked him in the eye with her fiercest scowl.

“He is!” The men stared at her, as if waiting for a punchline; when none came, they sputtered before guffawing, their peals loud in her ears. She blushed despite herself, a hot wash of rage filling her from head to foot. “What’s so funny!?”

“What’d ya mean, what’s so funny!?” The man slapped his knee, not sparing Héctor a second glance. “Can he even fuck you right?”

“Does he even know _how_?” the shrimp cackled. The tall one leaned on him, head cocked with a sneer.

“I thought he was a faggot.” He elbowed muscle-man. “He and that other one sure are chummy, eh?”

“Heh, yeah.” He snorted. “Maybe the maybe the little ruin’s screwing the both of them. One in the morning, one at night.” The ringleader wiped his nose, tongue darting to lick his lips as he studied her.

“Or maybe she just takes them both like the little whore she—” His sentence was never finished, interrupted by dull _thwack_ of the messenger bag against his head. He stumbled, his breath released in a sputter that flung spittle in an arc across the cobblestones. The bag split at the seam, releasing its contents in an explosion of paper. Toys and notebooks scattered across the ground, spare pencils bouncing on the uneven path. Héctor let the strap slip from his two-handed hold, rushing forward enough to push Imelda out of the line of fire before ducking as the man’s fist barely missed his head.

“You fucker!” The tall man grabbed his cowboy hat, mustache quivering.

“We’ll get you for that!” Muscles added. They stumbled from their chairs, wooden legs skidding on the ground as they took off in a dead run. _Oh no you won’t_! Imelda moved to intercept them, running on adrenaline as she squared off against the stampede of drunkards. She might have been facing 4-to-1 odds, but she had something they didn’t—a weapon.

She caught Shorty on her first upswing, the flat of her shoe colliding with his jaw. The impact jolted her arm, tingling in her elbow and shoulder joints; it was worth the pain to see his head snap to the side, her stylized Rivera R emblazoned in red flesh just below his cheekbone. He staggered, eyes rolling, and Mustache lunged for her with a snarl. She jammed the sharp edge of her heel into the meat of his forearm, digging as his hand closed around her wrist. He howled, blood beading on his dark skin, and immediately let go. She danced back, losing her grip on her basket; it fell to the ground, corn and tomatoes splattering against the walk.

“Ah!”

 _H_ _é_ _ctor_! She twirled, her long braid whipping Muscles across the face, and gasped as she saw Héctor hit the side of a darkened building. His skull cracked against the plaster, another cry wrenched from his lips as the ringleader raised his fist to strike. She acted on instinct, rearing back and chucking the boot as hard as she could possibly throw it. She prayed to any saint listening, silently begging for her aim to be true.

The boot found its mark, knocking the ringleader’s head forward with a grunt. He took a bracing step, one hand landing on his scalp and tenderly prodding for any damage. He let Héctor slide to the ground, turning slowly and snarling down at her. She paled, seeing the unbridled violence in his eyes, and began shrugging out of her other boot as fast as she could. Hands grabbed her from behind, one above each elbow; she screamed, her head slamming back and colliding with something equally as hard. There was a muffled crunch and Shorty let out a piggish squeal, falling to the ground with both hands on his nose.

Muscles dodged her bare foot, but Tall wasn’t so lucky; she caught him in the groin, taking him to his knees with a sob. The cowboy hat slipped from his greased hair, leaving him sprawled and writhing on the ground. She paused, chest heaving, and picked up her remaining boot before looking around for Muscles.

 _“You_ —” Déjà vu: another hand clamped on her shoulder, this time squeezing until she cried out in pain. Muscles grabbed her chin, spit flecking her face as he snarled. “You just couldn’t do what you were told, you cu— _augh_!” He fell backwards, dragging her down with him; her hip flared in a burst of pain, colliding with the street and sending a shockwave up her spine, resonating with a twinge in her brain. Héctor tackled him, punching him twice, two dull cracks that had Muscles head lolling.

He pulled back for one more, but before he could move he was physically hoisted in the air by the back of his collar. Both hands clamped to his throat, something more than adrenaline in his ragged gasp. Their eyes met and she saw terror, a panic that transcended years. _Stop… he can’t breathe, stop it—_ She stumbled to her feet, afraid of throwing her boot and accidentally hitting him instead….

“I’m gonna just do you a favor, **_amigo_** , and break your goddamn neck.” Héctor clawed at his neck, eyes large and frightened. _He’s going to die, I’m going to stand here and watch him die—_

 _SNAP_.

It seemed to happen between blinks. The ringleader holding Héctor, laughing as his feet kicked feebly in the air. The sharp sound, a crisp vegetable in the night air. The ringleader’s head twisting, his face bouncing off the side of the building like a child’s rubber ball. Crumpling, Héctor’s first heavy gasp of air, and standing above the both of them: Ernesto, one fist still clenched, a look of pure hatred burning in his eyes.

“Y-you gilled ‘im!!” She jumped away from the voice, turning; Shorty was sitting up, blood gushing from his nose. He stared, along with the other two, watching the unmoving form of their ringleader. “You broke ‘is negk!”

“Yours is next,” Ernesto growled, voice guttural and dripping with malice. Shorty sputtered, lips parting only to spit out a mouthful of blood. Tall crawled for his hat, crushing the crumpled brim to his chest. Ernesto took one step towards them, fists raised, and they turned tail; they vanished into the creeping shadow, abandoning their friend to his fate. Ernesto spat on the ground, eyes cold as he watched them leave.

He only looked away when Héctor began to cough, sharp, lung-burning hacks that Imelda knew too well. She could see the muscles jumping in his throat, spine rippling as he spat out pink-tinged phlegm. Ernesto pushed past her, pulling Héctor to his feet and rubbing between his shoulder blades.

“Héctor, _hermano_ : are you alright?” He supported his full weight, encouraging him to slump until his hands were on his knees. Héctor managed a nod, legs trembling as he fought to get in a few clean breaths of air. Imelda stepped forward, hand reaching out of her own accord, but the accusatory snarl on Ernesto’s face made her hesitate. She’d argued with him enough to know that he’d take anything Héctor said at face value over her own truth; it was better to wait.

She glanced past the two of them to the prone form of the ringleader. He was still motionless, and she felt a growing dread that Shorty had been right. What if Ernesto, in his hurry to protect Héctor, really _had_ broken his neck? But… it was self-defense, wasn’t it? They were just protecting her, and without Ernesto’s interference Héctor could have… he could’ve been…. She didn’t want to finish the thought, an icy hand gripping her heart and squeezing until she couldn’t breathe, either.

His expression melted as he turned from her to Héctor, chewing his lip as he continued to rub small, soothing circles on his back. From the way he was hunched over him, a bulky, overprotective vulture of sorts, she knew that he too had seen the blind panic in his friend’s eyes. She didn’t know much about the accident that claimed Héctor’s speech—those that knew the truth didn’t seem keen to gossip about it—but she knew enough. Ernesto had been there, a young boy himself; whatever he’d seen that day had stayed with him… with them both.

Knowing he’d snap at her if she tried to shove him aside, she instead crept unsteadily towards the motionless body. The light from the bar’s windows barely reached to this side of the street, but in the murky darkness she could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He wasn’t dead after all… but he was certainly unconscious. From the looks of things, Ernesto had knocked him out with a single blow—though she was sure the other side of his face hitting a building at full force had helped.

_That’s what you get._

Héctor was full standing now, taking in slow, deep lung-fulls of air. His last exhale was a hoarse sigh, relief and exhaustion and the last dregs of adrenaline all _whooshing_ out at once. He glanced up at Ernesto, a tight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth; his face was scratched, a thin trail of blood dripping down his jaw and his left eye beginning to blacken. Ernesto’s brow crinkled, meeting over the bridge of his nose.

“Héctor….” But Héctor’s attention was already turning to her, his smile slipping away entirely. He rushed to her, stumbling over the remains of his bag and sliding a little on a squashed tomato before dragging her away from the ringleader’s unconscious body. He checked her over, his long fingers sliding down her arms and spinning her in place, his keen gaze looking for the smallest sign of injury. It was over too quickly for her to even raise her voice in protest, those same bruised hands cupping her cheeks as he stared down at her.

“Héctor… _gracias_.” His face crumpled, a choked sound worming past his lips as he kissed her forehead. He grabbed her up, wrapping his arms around her in a desperate embrace. She leaned into it, holding him up, her chin digging into his shoulder. Ernesto watched them a moment, mouth pursed in disapproval; their eyes met and he looked away first, arms crossed and head turned towards the plaza.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, nuzzling into the hair behind his ear. He didn’t reply: no signal thumped lightly down her spine, no signs traced over her arms. He only held her more tightly, crushing her form to his chest and burying his face in her neck.

“What happened?” Ernesto finally snapped, too impatient to bother with formality or his usual schmoozing charisma. “Why was he fighting?” He sounded like a worried mamá, not someone’s roommate. She stared at him, refusing to open her mouth until she knew she could speak in a calm, even tone.

“Those men stopped me in the street. They were angry when I refused them, and then… they were going to….” Just what _were_ they going to do? As the adrenaline slowly wore off, the realization of what they had in mind began to creep back into the corners of her head. They would have overpowered her, and dragged her into the alley—or worse, into the bar itself—

“Did they touch you?” She was almost touched by the actual _care_ in Ernesto’s tone. He looked at her face more sharply, his dark eyes darting from her to the ringleader and back. Héctor’s arms managed, somehow, to form even tighter bands around her thin torso.

“No. I mean, sí—they grabbed me, but they didn’t get a chance to—well—” She began to tremble, her voice faltering as she pressed herself deeper into the warm cradle of her boyfriend’s arms. “Héctor stopped them before they could do any worse.” Ernesto sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“You were going to take all five of them on at once, then?” Héctor pulled away from her, running his thumb over her cheek. She waited for him to answer, and then saw the stubborn glint in his eye. “Don’t _ignore_ me,” Ernesto warned, a growl still coloring the edge of his tone. “You were going to do this on your own?” Héctor paused, and then gave a one-shouldered shrug. Perhaps she was just getting better at understand his moods, but that shrug seemed very… flippant. Almost defiant, if she had to put a word to it.

“Héctor!” Ernesto ran both hands through his hair, the perfectly gelled coif going limp against his forehead. “That is the singlehandedly most stupid, _bullshit_ thing you’ve ever had the—lack of sense—to do!” Héctor frowned, but didn’t reply; Ernesto didn’t seem to notice. “You were lucky I was close by! What would you have done if I hadn’t been here? You should have known better than to—”

 _Why_?! Imelda jumped, leaning away from Héctor as he signed the question hard enough to shake his entire frame. Ernesto stopped as well, his tirade forgotten as Héctor continued moving, his hands a blur. He went too fast for Imelda to catch most of it, but Ernesto had over a decade of experience with reading his friend’s nonverbal language. His eyes darted in time to the furious gestures, his own face darkening in a flush.

“¡¿ _Qué_?!” He spat, his hands still clenched. “What the hell are you saying? You know I wouldn’t—oh, you’re one to talk! I—No, _you_ look!” He threw out his hands, as if he could gather up the mess that lay all around them. Crushed vegetables, loose papers, splintered wood and ruined pencils… anything remotely salvageable was still crumpled and torn, trampled under seven pairs of feet. “You call this ‘under control’?!”

Héctor did look, turning in a slow circle. His breathing was heavy, as if he’d been the one shouting instead of Ernesto, and as he surveyed the damage to his belongings it grew even heavier. His jaw trembled, and with one sharp glare he stomped over and yanked his torn bag from the ground. The first few papers he tried to stuff into it simply fluttered back out, and after a moment’s frustration he began trying to stack everything under his arm.

Imelda watched him, unsure of what to do. She hadn’t been able to follow the conversation well enough to understand the cause of his anger towards Ernesto, and Ernesto was watching him with the air of an impatient older brother. It came to a head when Héctor stumbled over of one of his half-finished toys, losing his grip on his bag; papers tumbled in the breeze, the empty sack flopping to his shoes with a pitiful sound.

Héctor stared at it a moment, mouth twitching, and then without warning he kicked the bag with his good leg; it flew through the air, landing against the side of a building, and then he was running his hands through his hair with a raw, angry sound. He yanked at the lanky strands, his shoulders hunched.

“Come on, Héctor.” Ernesto sighed, aggravated, and walked over to him. He reached out, one hand on his shoulder, but before he could say anything else he was stumbling back. “Hey!” Héctor signed something she didn’t recognize, his fist slapping one palm before doing a crazy swirl.

“I’m just trying to help you, I— _I don’t have any clue what you’re talking about, H_ _é_ _ctor_!” Héctor made another sign that she didn’t know—two in a single conversation was getting to be a rarity, but clearly she still had a lot to learn—his index and middle finger doing a strange crooking motion in midair. Ernesto gasped, and then she heard a new edge to the anger in his voice.

“I would never—even _I_ couldn’t have—not on my own—” He fell silent as Héctor ‘spoke’; this time he spoke quickly, but instead of the forceful jabbing and guillotine-esque swoops his hands moved with a grim purpose. It was still faster than Imelda was used to, but she caught certain things with startling clarity: he was talking of himself, and something... there was that weird crooking again, and… her?

As if on cue, Ernesto turned to look at her. She froze, startled by the calculating, almost punishing look in his eyes. She’d never saw that before, especially not directed towards her. She knew he didn’t like her, but when he looked at her like that… she felt a miniscule shiver work its way through her.

“What did you tell him?” Ernesto’s voice was so low that, had she not seen his lips move, she’d have thought she imagined it.

“What?”

“What did you _say_?” She was taken aback; he was quiet, calm even, but brewing beneath the words was a fury she’d never felt from him before. It roused her own anger, and she found herself lashing out like a cornered kitten.

“I haven’t said anything!” she hissed, eyes narrowed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I was a little too busy being attacked!” Ernesto took in a breath and lunged at her in the same movement, his hand flashing out for her wrist. In the space of a breath Héctor was between them, signing furiously and finishing it off with a shove to Ernesto’s chest. He stumbled back, caught off-guard, and then his mottled cheeks darkened further.

“I _told you_ it would be this way,” he snarled. For a quick moment she thought he was gloating, but there was no humor in his voice. “I told you what would happen if you got caught up with _her_.” Héctor didn’t reply, and instead the two squared off in a stare down. Imelda couldn’t tell what was being said, only that a silent conversation was happening between the two men.

Then, without warning, Héctor turned on his heel and limped off stiffly in the direction of home. Ernesto crossed his arms, all but pouting as he watched him go. Imelda stood, staring at the ruined remains of her purchase—it was good that she had canned vegetables in the cellar, otherwise they’d be in trouble. That money was supposed to have lasted them the rest of the week.

“You need to clean this up,” she informed Ernesto curtly, pointing to the unconscious man. “Before he decides to tell the police about the man who attacked him while he was minding his own business.” Leaving him with those words, she paused long enough to yank on her shoes, pick up her basket, and grab Héctor’s bag before chasing up the hill after him.

“Hey, wait just a damn minute!”  She ignored him, squinting in the darkness to see Héctor had already made it most of the way up the hill. She slung the strap over her shoulder, letting the two halves of the torn bag flap as she picked up her skirts and sprinted after him. Even with his limp he could outpace a normal man, but with her at full speed it didn’t take her long to catch up.

“Héctor!” He looked over his shoulder, frowning down at her before turning away and hurrying on. “Hey!” Nonplussed, she panted as she fought the hill; she made sure to reach his side before slowing down, keeping pace just behind him. “I can fix your bag, I think. I’ll double stich the inside on my sewing machine; it’s made for leather, so I know it can… pierce….” She fell silent, mouth puckering when she saw he was ignoring her just as easily as he had Ernesto.

“Héctor?” She reached for his hand, gasping when he jerked it away. “What’s the matter? Why are you angry?” He didn’t answer, turning quickly down a side alley and hopping up a set of stone stairs behind the church. She followed, keeping her skirts above her ankles in case she had to take off running again. “Was it something Ernesto said?”

The church stood on the corner of their street; looking down past the _juguetería_ , she could see the bend that would take her back home. Her brothers, undoubtedly bored of waiting for her, were probably tinkering with some new gadget that would have a hole burned into her ceiling. But they must wait; she needed to know just what had set Héctor off.

Héctor cut down another street, and she followed at his heels with a sound of confusion. It was clear why a moment later when they came to a back road, a row of close, crooked garden fences lining an empty pavilion. He stopped before one gate, opening it up; she thought he would shut it in her face, but he left it standing open as he stomped inside and paused under the whitewood tree she recognized from her forays into the _juguetería’s_ back living quarters.

So this was their garden? It was sparse, the tree taking up the bulk of the space; a tiny bench, hewn from a stump, was shoved into a natural corner formed by the heavy roots. Bird-pecked grass stood in little clumps, the dusty earth showing in large bald patches that led to the woodpile and the back door.

She sat her basket on the bench, folding up his bag and putting it inside to take home with her. Even if he didn’t want to talk about it, it was too good of a bag to let go to waste. If she couldn’t fix it, she could at least tear it apart and let him reuse the cloth for some of his toys. She shrugged off her shawl as well, closing the wooden gate and enclosing them in the space. Anyone tall enough could see over the lip of the wall, but not by much; she felt safe enough here, with her boyfriend, to be a little casual with her clothing.

“Are you not going to talk to me, then?” He didn’t look at her, his jaw clenched and arms crossed as he gazed passively at a crack in the far wall. There was a clear red line beneath his Adam’s apple, where his clothing had choked him. She grimaced when she saw it, wanting to reach up and sooth the skin with her touch. But he didn’t like her touching his throat at the best of times; she highly doubted, incensed as he was, that he’d allow her to now.

“Héctor, _por favor_ ….” She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing his where they jutted out from beneath his elbow. He remained stone, back teeth grinding as his heaving chest slowed back to normal breathing. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He shook his head, a tiny jerk to each side.

 _No_ , or perhaps _nothing_ : she couldn’t tell.

“Are you angry at me?”

 _No_.

“Are you angry at Ernesto?”

 _…No_.

“So you’re just angry at those men.”

 _Yes_.

“You know…” she faltered, gathering her thoughts. “If you hadn’t come, I don’t know what I would have done. I don’t know if I could have handled that alone for much longer. Thank you for looking out for me.” She smiled, trying to go in for a hug and finding herself embracing a statue.

_No._

“What?” What did he mean, no? No problem? Nothing to it? “I don’t understand.” He scowled darkly, eyes screwed shut. “Héctor, _tell me_ what is _wrong_!”

 _No!_ A harder shake, jaw twitching.

“Tell me!”

 _No_!

“Héctor!”

_No!_

“Héctor, you tell me this instant or—”

_I CAN’T!_

For the first time, she understood why Ernesto often told Héctor to not ‘shout at him’. He was physically incapable of yelling, so far as shouting words was concerned, but the way he’d signed at her was as jarring and loud as if he’d screamed it in her face. He stormed towards the back door, kicking at the wall before pacing its length, one hand digging into his scalp.

“How dare you!” The words sputtered out of her mouth before she could catch them. “Don’t you yell at me, Héctor Rivera!” She ran in front of him, cutting him off mid-step. “Now I don’t know what your problem is, but don’t you _ever_ — _what does that even mean!?_ ” she snapped, pointing at his hand.

He’d managed to interrupt her with a series of quickfire signs, too caught up in his own anger to remember that she needed him to go slower. He’d ended with that two-fingered wiggle-crook-thing, a look of disgust on his face. He reached for his bag at his side, his other hand groping at his ear for his pencil. Remembering that he had neither, he made a loud, frustrated noise.

“Well?” He stared at her a long moment, anger and something else burning in his gaze, and then slapped a hand to his neck. Before she could speak, he slapped it again, this time against his pants leg. She looked down, seeing the uneven, hastily hemmed fabric at his shoe and felt a lump in her throat.

He slapped again, for emphasis, before making the sign with his free hand. He’d taught her plenty of signs that way: fire, church, fun, kiss…. But here was one she didn’t want to learn, didn’t even know he’d had a sign for. It was for himself… or, rather, his disability.

“And?” she croaked, swallowing the words still stuck in her throat. “You’re telling me _that_ perfectly well, but you can’t tell me what’s bothering you?”

_They’re the same._

“So you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

_No!_

“Then _what_?” He groaned aloud, running both hands through his hair before scrubbing his cheeks. Without another word he threw open the back door, limping inside; she could hear him scrounging around, cupboard doors slamming and things being shoved aside. There was a snap, the scratching of a match, and then the faint glow of the gas lamp flickered through the open doorway. She waited, torn between chasing after him and letting him have his little temper tantrum. 

After a moment he returned, shoving a torn piece of butcher’s paper at her with a scoff. She took it, squinting down the dusky twilight. By the glow of the newly risen moon, she could just see the shaky scrawl of an emotional man: _no podría protegerte_. She read it once, twice, and then a third time, just to make sure she hadn’t gone crazy and was just seeing things.

“Héctor… what are you talking about?” She crumpled the paper in her fist, letting it fall to the ground. His back was to her, arms crossed again. “You did protect me! What did you think that was, back there?” He didn’t turn, but his right hand brushed over his head, as if smoothing down his hair.

_Ernesto._

“Ernesto was lucky enough to hit a man once, _once_ , and who wasn’t even looking at him. _You_ were the one that fought off two men at once, if I remember correctly.”

_No._

“Héctor….” He turned, and she expected to see him exasperated or even angry at her insistence. But his eyes glinted, watery in the moonlight, and his face was drawn with a dark sadness that she immediately didn’t like. She held out her arms, imploring him silently to come to her. He hesitated. “Héctor, _ven a mí_.”

He obeyed, leaning forward in the final step and letting her wrap her arms around him tightly. He clung to her, face buried in her neck, the arch of his spine in the corner of her eye a little alarming. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to straighten up, though, and so she held him close, nice and safe in her arms.

“You did protect me,” she assured him, feeling the heat of his answering sigh on her bare neck. “You did… you were so brave.”

 _N_ — She put a hand on his hair, stopping him from completing the headshake she felt against her shoulder. Petting him, she turned her face enough to kiss the outer shell of his ear.

“You were,” she whispered, soft and firm. “I was so happy to see you.” He pulled back, just enough to make a face at her. His eye was even blacker now, the scratches on his face standing out in harsh relief against the smoothness of his skin. The red marks on his neck were darker, too, and she had no doubt that his knuckles were swollen. “Ay, look at you,” she sighed.”

 _Huh?_ One brow arched.

“You’re all banged up,” she tutted, turning his face by the chin. Nothing looked like it would scar, but it couldn’t have felt good. “Here.” She leaned up, pressing a kiss to the edge of a nick on his jawline. “I’ll kiss it better.”

 _Huh?!_ She took his face in both hands, leaving him no room to argue as she pressed her lips to every scratch on his cheeks. He fell silent, his eyes open and watching as she surveyed the damage, shaking her head all the while. He flinched when she kissed his eye, his hand rising to prod carefully around the puffy flesh with a frown.

She took his hand and kissed that too, every knuckle given special consideration. She let it go, holding out her palm expectantly; he gave her the other one without comment, grinning sheepishly when their eyes met.

“Anywhere else?” He paused, thinking, and then tapped his lips. She arched a brow, her heart fluttering with joy; at least he was calm enough to want to tease her, or at the very least humor her. “That’s funny,” she said slowly, tilting her head to gaze at him through her lashes. “I don’t remembering seeing you hit in the mouth.” He shrugged, chomping once before rubbing his cheek with a pout.

“You bit your cheek?” A nod. “Well….” She drew him closer, resting her back against the wall as she cupped his cheek. “That changes things, doesn’t it?” He didn’t answer, his lips brushing hers teasingly. She grinned, and then shivered when he mouthed her name. He kissed her when she was distracted, hands on her shoulders and hips pushing hers against the plaster of the wall.  

They broke apart only when she needed to take a breath, his hands finding her cheeks and guiding her back to press kiss after kiss to her eager lips. His thumb brushed dangerously close to her mouth, its calloused edge gently scratching the smooth skin of her cheek. She pressed her cheek into its warmth, her tiny fingers barely able to fit across the back of his palm. She turned her head, running her lips over the digits before nipping at them teasingly. Her teeth grazed his thumb, his answering hiss sliding straight to her core and burning there.

 “You’re so warm,” she murmured, shivering helplessly when his hips began to press slowly, rhythmically against hers. “Warm me, _mi amor_ ….” He angled her face back up to his, studying her quietly by the light of the moon. She whined under her breath, gazing at him through her lashes. A blush spread slowly over his cheeks, running down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his white shirt.

He kissed her again, more slowly this time, and his tongue ran musingly along the seam of her lips. She parted them willingly, melting into his chest at the first roll of his tongue against hers. One hand drifted to her hip, holding her steady while the other kept her face upturned. Her hands slipped to span the breadth of his chest, his heart hammering beneath her fingers and a moan rumbling somewhere behind his ribcage.

Feeling bold—maybe a little too much adrenaline in one night was going to her head—she pulled his hands from her body and pressed them imploringly to her chest. He gasped, breaking the kiss to look down in shock. His fingers, dark against the white of her blouse, twitched as he stalled.

“Héctor,” she pleaded, arching into his touch. “ _por favor?_ ” His eyes darted to meet hers, his irises dark bands around dilated pupils. She pushed her chest harder against him, her fingers closing over his to press his hands into a light squeeze. “ _Mi corazón_ ,” she purred, feeling hot and achy. Her breasts were heavy, needing something—she didn’t know what it was, exactly, but she knew he could give it to her. 

She nearly cried out when he squeezed harder, this time of his own volition. She felt him shudder, the aftershocks trickling into her through his fingers, and covered her mouth. He batted her hand away, frowning sternly. An impish glimmer sparkled in his eye, and before she knew it her back was to his chest. She steadied herself against the wall, staring in surprise at the faded plaster before sagging against it when his hands went back to her breasts.

He rolled them slowly in his hands, palming their weight. His chest was flush against her spine, the metal of his belt buckle chilling her skin through the blouse; a growing bulge pressed absently against her rear, sending little shivers through her body. His fingers, tickling her skin through the fabric, brushed over her nipples; she jerked, fingers curling against the wall as she whispered his name. He repeated the movement, more purposefully this time, and she arched into the touch.

“There…” He rubbed slow circles over her nipples, one at a time, the other hand constantly exploring the dips and curves of her chest with eager, questing fingers. She squeaked when he pinched her nipple by accident, the sound growing into a soft cry when he did it again on purpose. “Héctor, _por favor_ ,” she repeated, unsure of what she was even begging him for.

“Shh.” It was one of the few sounds he could still definitely make, low against her ear. He pressed hot open-mouthed kisses down her neck, tasting her skin and humming under his breath. She tilted her head to give him better access, unable to decide whether to press into his touch or lean against his back. An insistent throbbing began between her thighs, leaving her with no option but to press them together in an effort to ease the desperate, empty aching.

It felt so good to be like this, surrounded by him and held so warm and safe in his arms. Her mind jumped to other scenes, of how much _better_ it would be to feel his bare skin on hers, to be able to trace every rib with her fingers, to be able to touch all the parts of him that he hid from the world. She bit her lip, holding back a whimper as she grabbed his wrist. She pushed his hand down her body, no longer caring whether it was right or wrong or—or anything. All she knew was that she needed him, needed some part of him between her legs to soothe her, and heat her, and fill her.

She heard his breath hitch, felt the jerk of his chest, but his fingers pressed through her skirts in search of her warmth. It wasn’t enough, the pressure of his palm barely anything thanks to the thick fabric. She writhed, pressing up into his willing palm and feeling little more than when she clenched her thighs together.

He pressed soft, feathery kisses on the back of her neck, still teasing her other taunt nipple with firm strokes of his thumb. Distracted by the way his lips tickled the downy fuzz of her neck, she nearly missed his hand slipping down in the gap between her blouse and her skirts. She felt his palm, burning hot against her lower stomach, and pressed her lips together to muffle the startled cry that threatened to burst out of her.

His fingers slid lower, cupping her mound and… waiting. They stood there, her arms braced against the wall from the elbow up, hips flush to his and back arched. He panted above her, his hand comforting as it brushed over her curls. She gave a tentative movement, his fingers sliding further between her legs, and then let out a soft sigh of contentment. She felt… oddly safe like this, his hands enfolding her and body behind her, ready for her to lean against when the time came.

“ _Tócame_ ,” she murmured, pressing her hips back to rub against the hardness she felt there. He slowly came alive, his fingers spreading her folds. With his hands occupied he couldn’t talk to her, but she didn’t need him to; he sighed and grunted above her, his hips grinding steadily into her from behind while his fingers coated themselves in her wetness in front. She didn’t try to stop the sounds that poured from her mouth, soft entireties and thrilled gasps. He explored every part of her, his fingers brushing up against valleys and crevices she didn’t even know she had.

His palm, pushing heavy against her core as he delved deeper, rubbed against something that sent a shock of fire from her head to her toes. Her thighs clamped around his hand, a sharp sound scratching her throat. He jerked, immediately stopping and trying to pull away. She pressed her hand to his through her skirts, shaking her head as she tried to catch her breath.

“No, there—that’s good, I want it,” she mewled, rocking forward and grinding against his hand the way he had against her backside. He made a thick, rough sound in his throat, a cross between a growl and a moan, and she felt another stab of pleasure add to the heat in her stomach. “Héctor—I want— _please_ —”

His hand wound its way back out of her skirts, wet fingers leaving a damp trail against her stomach and the empty space between her thighs more noticeable than ever. She whined in frustration, ready to shout at him, but he turned her around and pressed her back against the wall.

She didn’t think it was possible to get any hotter, but the look on his face was enough to send her melting into a puddle on the dusty ground. She shivered when the night air hit her legs, her skirts drawn up past her knees. It was only when he went to push them up her thighs that she stopped him, her hands on his.

“No, we can’t,” she mumbled, cursing herself for every word. “We’re not—we can’t, we’re not—”

“Shh,” he hushed, pressing his forehead against hers and nuzzling before finding her lips again. She kissed him desperately, wishing that they were married, that there could be no qualm about him stripping her to the naked flesh and seeing everything that she’d never wanted anyone to see—before him, at least. His hands dug into the meat of her hips, bracing her against the wall as he lifted her easily.

He nestled easily between her hips, as perfect as if he’d been made to go there. Her sex pressed against his through the coarse fabric of his trousers, her skirts bunched on either side of her upper thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him closer with a tremor, and her arms found his shoulders. He grinned against her mouth, swallowing her cry when he began to thrust slowly against her. As good as it felt against her back, it was even _better_ here, a part of her nearly crying in relief as he pressed into her.

 _This is fine, this was fine_ , she assured herself, though thinking was quickly becoming a little too hard. His mouth left hers, leaving a line of saliva on his chin; she pulled him back and licked it away, his answering moan resonating deep in her body. His head dropped and she very nearly shouted when his tongue licked over her breast, leaving a damp trail of cotton before his warm, wet mouth closed around her nipple. Her hands tightened in his hair, yanking at the strands as she kissed his scalp, shaking against the wall.

The angle of his movement shifted and she cried out, accidentally scratching his head. She tried to move against him in return, their hips stuttering against each other before finding a steady rhythm. He gasped out, his face buried in her chest, breath tickling the skin between her breasts. Her back dragged against the plaster, braid catching between her spine and the wall as every snap of his hips hit that spot he’d found before, making good on her earlier words, he was burning her alive—

His hand clapped over her mouth, muffling her scream as her entire body gave way, muscles stretching taunt in pleasure before relaxing, a warm feeling spreading all through her limbs. She felt a spasming deep inside her, pleasurable little jolts that left her legs trembling and loose around his hips. Her breath warmed her lips, hot on his palm; she kissed it after a moment and he let his fingers slide to her collarbone, tracing the line to the dip at the base of her neck.

“Héctor,” she crooned, running her hands through his hair. He shook himself free, pressing his forehead against her shoulder and kissing the sweat from her damp skin. He felt almost clammy, the night air cooling the sweat on his body as he continued to push up into the junction of her thighs. She amused herself with his chest, finding his nipples and paying back his earlier attentions on her own. He shuddered and jerked, hips falling in and out of rhythm the harder she teased them, using the fabric of his shirt to her advantage.

As the haze in her mind faded, a flash of coherency had her struggling forward, yanking his torso close enough to lick over his chest the same way he had hers. He let out a strangled cry, biting back the sound that chased it, and rocked harder into the warmth between her thighs. His hands tightened on her hips until she winced, his teeth scraping over her shoulder until, with a muted groan, he sagged against her. She felt him spasm against her, the feeling much like her own release, and smiled before pressing one last kiss to his chest.

He let her legs slide to the ground, skirt falling to hide everything down to her ankles. She wobbled, leaning against the wall for support, and he steadied her with a hand. He let out a breath after a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow before leaning in and kissing her cheek. She turned her head, catching his lips with her own and pulling one or two more sweet kisses from him.

“ _Mi amor_ ,” she whispered, feeling that in this moment the words were never truer. He smiled, puling her away from the wall and pressing her head to his chest. His shirt was damp from her tongue, his heart racing beneath her ear. She leaned into him, squeezing his thin form with a giddiness that was slowly fading with the last moments of hazy pleasure.

“I feel so safe here….” She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but couldn’t bring herself to feel embarrassed for stating the truth. As long as he held her like this, nothing from the outside world could touch her. The garden was its own world, separate from the street; in the silence of the late evening, she realized how loud they must have been otherwise.

 _Imelda._ His finger traced I’s up and down her back, slowly swapping to something that she had to concentrate to make out. _Te amo._ Eyes widening, she leaned back just enough to meet his soft, gentle eyes. They glittered at her in the moonlight, framed by the long lashes that she could stare at for days. _Te amo_ , his hand repeated, just above her rear. _Te amo_ , his lips moved along to the crooked script he wrote through her clothes. Her heart swelled, filling her from stomach to throat and further. She buried her face back in his chest, unable to stop the grin from pulling at her mouth until her face hurt.

“ _Te amo_ ,” she repeated, whispering to his skin and knowing that, above her head, he felt and heard it. “ _Te amo_.”

 


	10. Day 11: Dom/Sub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11: Dom/Sub  
> Pre-canon
> 
> Aftercare is important!

“I brought you some water.”

Imelda stirred on the bed, the warm summer night somehow managing to cool her sweat-drenched skin. She reached up gratefully, taking the glass her husband offered; the water was fresh from the well, icy and soothing. Héctor had made her scream until she was nearly hoarse—not that she was complaining in the slightest—and the water helped to cool the rawness left behind, wounds from where he’d torn the pleas and groans from her.

He watched her drink, taking the glass from her when she was through and placing it on the nightstand. He didn’t bother with his trousers, crawling into the bed naked and pulling the quilt over them both before gathering her silently in his arms. He went to spoon her, but she turned and wrapped her arms around his thin torso, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. He held her close, one hand methodically unsticking the loose curls from her neck.

He was always like this after one of his ‘nights’. She’d been taught growing up that wives were duty-bound to service their husband’s needs, especially in bed. Some of her childhood friends admittedly had it worse off. Gabriella’s husband would take her wherever he pleased, at home or not. Lola’s husband was a drunkard, his rough hands and rougher words leaving her in tears. And poor Inez’s husband was like clockwork: Tuesdays and Thursdays, with his mistress fitted in on Friday afternoons.

Héctor never asked much of her; he was a good man, a wonderful husband and an attentive lover. But sometimes he came home with a glint in his eye, his hands squeezing her curves until she gasped and his mouth stealing her breath with hot, bruising kisses. It was these times that she, too, did her due diligence. They never spoke much about it, other than Héctor’s quiet voice asking her consent before binding her wrists with her hair ribbons.

At least Imelda enjoyed fulfilling her husband’s desires, unlike her poor friends—save for Gabriella, who lifted her skirts for the man she loved a little _too_ willingly, and right after Mass at that. Héctor was never too harsh with her, and while he did sometimes make her cry it was never… _bad._ He always watched her with a keen interest, his dark eyes dilated and calculating as he listened to her cries. She knew—he’d told her, the first time he’d ever asked to bind her wrists—that if she didn’t like it, she need only tell him to stop and he’d let her go without question.

But so far, the thought of stopping had never crossed her mind during these rare, tantalizing sessions. She always felt a wicked thrill whenever his fingers dug into her hips, using his teeth instead of his lips to tease the skin on the back of her neck; it was a silent question, one she knew just as easily as if he’d asked it outright. The act felt forbidden in some way: delicious, wicked pleasure that left her trembling, body and soul. However, they were married; their bodies belonged to each other, and there was nothing sinful in the act of coupling between a man and his wife.  

And afterwards, he always took such good care of her that she never minded being bound, denied, and teased until the tears ran down her cheeks. Cuddling after sex was a normal occurrence for the both of them, drowsy and basking in the luxurious comfort of sheets and bared skin. But on his nights, he seemed to feel that it was _his_ duty to care for her afterwards, not letting her lift a finger to help herself.

His hands were always gentle when he unbound her wrists, massaging the red marks before pressing soft kisses over her fingers. His goatee tickled her palms, and he sometimes took a selfish moment to press them to his face with warm affection. He wiped the tearstains from her cheeks, nuzzling and gentling her as he combed the hair from her forehead and arranged it for her on the pillows. Then water, a warm blanket, and his body curving into her, or hers curving into him. His embrace was safe and inviting, his heart beating steadily beneath her ear and legs tangling with hers.

“Are you alright?” he asked, as he always did. She turned to press a lazy kiss to his chest, nodding before looking up at him. Her limbs were always like jelly on these nights, her body warm with the essence he left inside of her—if he entered her at all.

“I am,” she murmured, combing through the curling hair on his chest. He placed his hand on top of hers, trapping it near his heart, and offered a tired smile. She returned it, leaning up to kiss his chin. “It was good, _mi amor_. So good.”

“I’m glad.” He sighed, pulling her up the mattress until they were eye to eye. “You were good, too. You’re so beautiful; I’m so happy….” She waited for him to finish his sentence, but he seemed content to leave it at that.

“Then I’m happy, too.” She kissed him properly this time, intimacy without the hunger that had his teeth nipping at her earlier in the night. He made a sound in his throat, a muffled mumble that tickled her lips. “Hmm?”

“Go to sleep, _mi vida._ ” He rested his forehead against hers, gazing into her eyes through his long, beautiful lashes. She felt a rush of warmth, a deep love that nearly hurt in its intensity. She wanted to laugh, or to cry, anything to release the wealth of emotion that burned so brightly when she thought of him: her _músico_ , her husband, her Héctor. Perhaps that was why he needed these nights, to rid himself of the passion that bubbled inside him until he had no choice but to let it out. “Go to sleep,” he repeated, oblivious to her thoughts. His arms tightened around her, cradling her and supporting her all at once. “I’ve got you.”

“I know you do,”  she replied. She leaned into him, their bodies sliding together in a sensual, loving manner. There was no desire in the movement any longer, only a need to be close to one another, to feel that they weren’t alone. She knew that, no matter how long she lived, she’d never grow tired of feeling the drag of his chest hair on her breasts, his flat stomach at odds with the natural curve of her hips. “ _Te amo_ , Héctor.” Feeling ridiculous and sentimental, she blushed as she added quickly, “ _Tu eres el amor de mi vida_.”

“ _Diosa_ ,” he breathed in reply, an innocent, boyish smile curling his lips. “ _Mi música_ , _mi musa, mi esposita_ , _nunca_ ….” He paused, swallowing, before a blush spread over his cheeks.

“ _Nunca dejaré de amarte_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a big oneshot planned for this, but I got writer's block and grew frustrated. I decided to take the writer's version of a "me day", giving myself a limit of 1500 words or less.
> 
> I decided to focus this tinier oneshot on the aftercare aspect of dom/sub. Aftercare (for those not well-initiated in BDSM terms) is the attention and... well, care... given to a partner at the end of the sexual experience. It kind of marks the end of the encounter, and is used to make sure that the partner (usually the sub) is healthy both mentally and physically. It's a very important part of the BDSM process, and means different things to different people. 
> 
> Since Imelda and Héctor are married, his aftercare includes more intimate things like naked cuddles and declarations of love!


	11. Day 12: Fingering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12: Fingering  
> 1980s!AU 
> 
> It takes a hot, lazy afternoon for Imelda to realize her feelings for Héctor may be more than casual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU is actually by Senora_Luna! I highly recommend checking out her 1980s oneshots!

“Really: how can you find _anything_ in here?” Imelda frowned, her lips tightly pursed as she lifted the corner of an old concert jacket. Héctor’s place was never _dirty,_ per se, but it was a marvel that they functioned at all with the mountains of paper scattered over every flat surface. “A little organization wouldn’t hurt.”

“I suppose I _could_ clean it,” Héctor admitted as he watched her from the sofa, “but it would only get dirty again.” He certainly looked like the owner of such a house; his tank top showed so much skin that he might as well be topless, and his lower half was clad in nothing more than a pair of loose pink boxers. He reclined against the cushions, grinning halfheartedly at her as he watched her pace the room in mounting frustration.

“Ay! Next thing you’ll say is that you won’t clean your clothes because you’ll just get them muddy again! And you might as well not shower, because you’ll just get sweaty again!” She crossed her arms, foot tapping impatiently as she glared. “That’s such an _Ernesto_ thing to say. I think his gross-factor is starting to rub off on you, Héctor.”

“Tch, _cállate_. He’s not that bad.” Héctor held out his arm invitingly, showing her the Imelda-sized corner waiting beside him on the sofa. “Come on, Imeldita.  Let’s see what’s on the _tele_. Stop stomping around like that; you’d make a guy nervous.”

“You’re not going to distract me, Héctor. You need to _clean_ this place.” He rolled his eyes, head falling to the side with a groan.

“C’mon, ‘Melda! What’s your damage? _Es_ _sábado_ ; no one cleans on the weekend!” He pouted at her, lower lip jutted out even as his eyes swept over her form. “Besides, you’re the one distracting _me_. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you dressed up for me, _mi amor_.”

“As if.”

“Oh? Then why are you wearing _my_ shirt?” His smug grin was almost too much to bear. She turned from him, tightening the scrunchie that held her dark curls piled on top of her head. It wasn’t _her_ fault he kept persuading her to stay the night, and she couldn’t be seen leaving his house in the same clothes she arrived in. Santa Cecelia was too small of a town; the last thing she needed was word getting out that she frequently slept over at a local _músico’s_ bachelor pad.

“Because it looks better on me,” she snapped, plucking at the rolled sleeves. To be fair, the pink button-up was quickly becoming one of her favorites; it was soft and baggy, with two pockets on the chest that covered her breasts exactly, leaving her free to run around without a bra. When paired with her favorite blue pinstripe jeans, tucked in and cinched by a belt, she had an outfit that was as stylish as it was comfortable. Perhaps she _should_ give it back, though… just enough to get his scent back on it.

“Can’t argue there.” His gaze fell to her hips, eyeing her belt. “C’mere,” he urged, in another tone entirely. “I want to see if it looks just as good on the floor.” A thrill ran through her at his words, their implication sending shivers up her spine. Scenarios ran through her head, thoughts of what they might do while Ernesto was away and they had the place to themselves. She danced for him in her mind, a seduction of slow hips and sultry glances that had him hard before she even made it to the sofa.

“And why should I do anything you ask?” she purred, shifting her weight from hip to hip. She was out of reach and safe for the moment, away from his skilled, questing hands. It gave her ample opportunity to tease. “You didn’t even put on pants, and you knew I was coming.”

“But I _did_ dress up for you,” he insisted, gracing her with a lidded stare that left heat pooling in her stomach. He adjusted one of his straps, using the motion as an excuse to run his hand across his chest and swipe at the faint sheen of sweat glistening there. The standing fan, blowing paper and hot air in its attempt to combat the sweltering heat of the afternoon, fluttered his long bangs. “I’m showing off everything that you like, aren’t I?”

She couldn’t lie; she did like his body, much more than she enjoyed admitting. His lanky limbs ought not to have been sexy, not when wicked toned muscles were totally in. He had the body of a dweeb, but she couldn’t deny that his thin build was drop-dead sexy. She would have never guessed that he was her type, with the flat stomach that was much softer than it appeared, the shadows of his ribs visible when he took a deep breath, and the untrimmed hair sprinkled over his chest.

“Mmm… maybe so.” She hooked her fingers in the waistband of her pants, the belt biting as she rocked onto the balls of her feet. “But you could have at least chosen a better shirt.” That tank top looked suspiciously large enough to fit Ernesto, which meant he was behind on his laundry and just bummed one of his roommate’s shirts instead of taking care of the chore. She sighed internally, making a mental note to wash his underwear at the very least.

“How could I, when you’re the one wearing it?” He grinned easily, his arm looped over the back of the sofa as he regarded her. His mouth widened when he saw her expression, gold tooth glinting in the flashing light of the muted television; he knew exactly what his bedroom voice did to her, and she hated it.

“Why don’t you come get it, then?” She brushed a ticklish hair off the back of her neck, daring him with her eyes to get up and come for her. She wanted a chase: to be hunted, dragged down and taken, on the floor, the counters, the bed—wherever he finally caught her. She wanted to feel his breath on her neck, that lithe body pushing hers into whatever surface was available, holding her down, their skin sticking together in the melting heat.

She knew he saw her challenge, eyes lighting up, and she wondered if he imagined the same scenario. Would it arouse him to follow her through the house, to corner her and feel the gnawing frustration when she slipped through his long fingers? Would he want to tackle her, dig his nails into her skin and rip off her clothes while she snarled and fought beneath him? It wouldn’t be like his usual sweet lovemaking, his eyes on her and body working towards her pleasure before ever considering his own. The thought alone was enough to make her wet, thighs pressed together as subtly as possible to stave off the feeling.

But if he desired it, he hid it well. Ignoring her open challenge, he instead sat up on the sofa and crooked a finger at her, entreating her to come to him. She frowned, feeling a small measure of disappointment that he hadn’t taken the bait. She’d wanted to _move._

“How about _you_ come give it to me?” he crooned, resting his elbows on his knees. She tilted her head, locking eyes with him and feeling a rush run through her veins, so much like adrenaline and yet leaving her on fire, rather than ready to fight. It would be giving up, going to him, but the promise of pleasure was written all over his face. If she gave in, he’d make it more than worth her while.

“Lazy boy,” she muttered, picking at her black nail polish. He shrugged, smirking, and spread his legs before pointing with a snap to the space his knees vacated. _Fine,_ she thought, _if you make **me** come to **you** , be prepared to fight the entire way. _She put on hand on her hip, slowly walking across the room and making sure that she swung her hips just enough to get his attention. She watched the blush spread slowly over his face, his ears burning red when she caught his eye and winked.

“Imelda….” It wasn’t fair that he had such long arms, his fingers finding her belt loops and dragging her the rest of the way before she was through with her seduction. Even when sitting down he was so _tall_ , or maybe she was just too short; either way, he was the perfect height to do with her as he pleased when she stood before him like this. She scoffed when his hands moved to her hips, giving them a little shake before squeezing as much of her backside as he dared.

He pulled her forwards, nudging with his fingers until her knees hit the sofa and she couldn’t go any farther without falling on top of him. She rolled her eyes, biting her lower lip when he slowly slide his hands up towards her ribs. Her spine arched, trying to guide his palms towards her breasts; they were already heavy without a bra to support them, and starting to ache. It really, _really_ wasn’t fair: he shouldn’t have this power over her.

 _It’s just because he’s good in bed_ , she reasoned with herself, nearly whining in frustration when he avoided her breasts and instead tapped his way up the valley to her collarbone. She could say what she wanted about Héctor, but even she had to admit that he was a good fuck. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way his sweeter tendencies made her heart skip a beat, or that she could listen to him talk for hours without being bored.

It certainly wasn’t because she actually loved him or anything, no siree. 

He began unbuttoning the shirt, his calloused fingers skirting her bare skin in ways that could only be purposeful. She huffed, trying to keep her hormones under control; she didn’t like it when he knew he had her in the palm of his hand. He could sometimes be smug about it, and it was frankly embarrassing, some of the things she said to him when he was making her forget her own name.

“Wait a second, are you—” She glanced down to see the shirt undone, the bare skin between her breasts on display between the two halves of pale pink fabric. He lifted the soft cloth, looking in both sides with a bemused expression that made her chuckle. “Are you not wearing a bra?” He looked up at her, lips parted breathlessly. “You haven’t been this whole time?”

“Surprise,” she laughed, amused at his wonder. Maybe he thought that all women walked around 24/7 with all their underwear; he should have known better, but then again… he was so innocent sometimes. He was a grown man, but when he looked at her like that she could easily remember the boy who’d fallen so hard for her when they were young.

He tugged the fabric from her waistband, letting it hand loosely as he parted the two halves to show her breasts. She shivered when the fan’s air blew over her bared flesh, nipples pebbling as goosebumps rose on her arms. He watched them tighten into peaks, his hands sliding past the shirt and feeling his way up her spine. Then, without warning, his palms went flat against her torso and she felt herself jerked forward.

A wet warmth closed over her breast and her knees buckled almost immediately, her weight sagging against his head before she could prop one knee on the cushion between his spread legs. He held her up, the flat of his tongue dragging over her nipple before sucking down hard. She wound her hands in his hair, tugging and melting further when his answering moan vibrated through her body.

“Héctor— _oh_ —” She couldn’t even keep her head lifted, shoulders sagging as she pressed her chest further into his eager mouth. He felt her trembling and adjusted himself, pressing her back over his hands until her bare stomach was nearly flush to his chest. He paused long enough to look up at her, his impish eyes meeting her dazed ones, and licked his lips. Her limbs became jelly, a soft whimper falling out of her mouth along with heavier pants.

“You’re so sensitive today, _mi amor_.” His thumb brushed beneath her shoulder blade, head bending to press a kiss against her collarbone. “Don’t you think?”

“S-sí….”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No….” Her hands tightened in his hair. “Don’t.”

“Does it feel good?”

“You’re being a tease,” she complained, knee digging into the wooden frame beneath the cushion’s padding.

“I know I am,” he answered smugly, tongue darting out to lick her neglected breast. She nearly bit a hole through her hip, feeling a wave of heat wash over her, leaving her face red. She glanced down, seeing the tented fabric of her boxers, and felt a surge of determination. If he wanted to dish it out, he had to take it, too.

“Then stop it,” she mumbled, pressing her knee further into the junction of his skinny thighs. She rubbed the growing bulge in his boxers, lip curling at the sound of his muffled groan. He pressed his forehead to her collarbone, hips arching to grind selfishly against her knee. She loosened her grip on his hair, petting the soft strands that were starting to overtake his shoulder blades.

He cursed, surging forward to wrap his arms around her. She couldn’t stop a yelp from spilling out when he picked her up, falling back against the arm of the couch and dragging her down with him. She lay there stupidly, blinking in surprise; he’d been able to move her so quickly, and the strength she’d felt when he picked her up…. She knew he could carry her—he’d done it before—but as always his strength left her startled… and hot.

He twisted, willowy frame trapping her between the back cushions and his side. She was half-sprawled atop him, her spine slipping into the crook of his arm and upper body reclined against his. He palmed her breasts from his new position, tracing the sensitive skin around her nipples before flicking them the way he remembered she liked. It was hard to arch against him, her body nestled too securely in the crevice he’d made.

His hands moved too quickly from her breasts, leaving them cold and aching. She made a complaining noise, shrugging away from his placating kisses just behind her ear. He nibbled her earlobe until she writhed—or tried to, since his hands were holding her hips still. He pressed his palms against her skin, pushing his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and holding her still to buck against her. She tried to push his hands deeper into her pants, nails scratching when she found them to be immoveable.

“Héctor!” She would never beg aloud, but her eyes did all the pleading for her as she turned to him. Worming her arm between his neck and the arm of the sofa, she pulled him too her and kissed until he had to gasp for breath. “Héctor, I want you; _hagámoslo, quiero que me cojan—”_ He didn’t answer, instead pressing her head against the back cushion with the force of his next kiss, his tongue sweeping to claim every inch of her mouth. It left her quivering, nearly delirious with the need to be loved by him.

She felt his hands move and nearly sighed in relief when he unbuckled her belt, pants sagging without anything to hold them tight to her waist. There was enough spare fabric that his hand slipped easily inside, feeling over her panties with curious fingers. He traced one finger over the damp spot in the middle, pressing just enough that she rocked her hips in an attempt to add more pressure.

“You’re wet,” he murmured into her ear, as if she didn’t know it already. “I bet you taste so good right now….”

“Taste me,” she gasped, the sound dangerously close to breaking her ‘no begging’ rule. Her head lolled against his shoulder, exposing the column of her throat; he took full advantage, his teeth scraping teasingly over the skin before sitting up just enough to suckle the sensitive dip at the very bottom. She didn’t even try to stop the sounds from pouring from her mouth, her voice embarrassingly high-pitched and needy.

“As much as I’d like to…” He reclined against the arm once more, nestling her against him in an intimate embrace. “I want to kiss you more.”

“Héc- _tor_ —” He kissed the rise of her cheek, nuzzling into her temple. “I need you.” He hummed against her scalp, working his way down to run the shell of her ear between his teeth. She clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to clamp her hand over his through her pants and grind into it. He was acting so nonchalantly, as if he had nothing else to do, taking his sweet time while she was a panting mess in his arms. It wasn’t _fair_ , how did he manage to do this to her every time?!

“How much do you want it?” he coaxed, his goatee tickling her jaw with every word. She didn’t answer, pride warring with lust, and any words she had vanished when he pressed her panties into her folds and rubbed once. She bucked, needing more of that friction, and nearly screamed when he stopped. “Imeldita, if you don’t say anything I’m going to have to assume you don’t want anything,” he purred.

“Fuck you!”

“You have, and probably will later on,” he jeered. “But right now… what do you want from me? Tell me… is it this?” His thumb pressed on her clit and she saw stars, her teeth snapping together in a snarl when he immediately took it away. “Or… this, maybe?” One finger teased her opening, the others tracing the line of her panties on either side of her thighs. “I just don’t understand when you don’t use actual words,” he mocked; if he hadn’t been so damn hot, she would have slapped him.

“I told you already, I want it!” She moved desperately against him, trying to get some kind of friction without the barrier of her panties in the way. “I want it, okay?! _Please_!” Immediately she held her breath, eyes screwing shut. _I can’t believe it. I can’t believe of all the people in this world, H_ _é_ _ctor-fucking-Rivera was the one who_ —

“That’s all you had to say.” His hand slipped past the waist of her panties, fingers coating themselves in her wetness without any further prompting. “Oh,” he sighed, his breath hot on her ear, “you’re so warm and wet… it’d feel good being inside you, I can tell—”

“Is that language something you learned from your little books?” she growled, still angry at him for making her break her rule even as she lifted her hips as high as her spine would let her. He frowned, a little crease between his brows as her words sunk in. He sighed, and her triumphant smirk was lost immediately as one finger slid easily inside of her. Her cry was raw and sounded painful, even to her own ears, but he only added another before pressing his palm against her clit.

“ _Debería hacer que dejes de hablar_ ,” he grunted, pressing down as he crooked his fingers inside of her. She shook, eyes fluttering as every nerve sang. “You get too cocky sometimes, ¿ _sabes_?”

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor, **H**_ ** _é_** ** _ctor_** _—”_ She reached out blindly for something to grab and found his thigh, fingernails digging into his skin. She heard him hiss, his fingers pumping slowly in and out of her. “ _Más_ , _mi amor_ , faster….”

“If you want it, work for it,” he cooed into her ear. She could feel his smile against her cheek, his lips brushing soft open-mouthed kisses over her face and down to her neck. She didn’t even have the strength to fight him, her hips obediently rising as she began to thrust harder against his hand. The last bit of coherent thought she possessed was hellbent on her revenge, angry babbling in the back of her mind while her body heaved and panted.

_I’m going to make him pay for this, if it’s the last thing I do; he’ll be begging for mercy and I won’t let him have it, how dare he make me feel this way, how dare he make me love—_

Her mind blanked at the last word, even as she knew it to be true; a saving grace, as in the same moment his teeth found her ear and his fingers rubbed against her walls in a way that left her breathless. She pushed against his hand, her own finding his knuckles through the fabric of her pants and holding him there as he worked her from the inside. She couldn’t breathe, her mind filled only with the thought that he was playing her like a guitar, his fingers strumming a chord within her that she didn’t even know she had.

Her every muscle pulled taunt, the pleasure becoming unbearable; a tear slipped from her eye, and he quickly kissed it away before it could reach her ear. His thumb ran circles over her clit, pressing in a pulsing rhythm that she couldn’t even rock against, her entire body held captive by his hand and frozen.

Her orgasm was almost as shock, it came over her so fast. In one moment she was on the edge, unable to pull in enough breath to breathe, much less scream, and then in the next she thought she felt the apartment shake all around her—though, perhaps that might have been the sofa. She fairly sobbed as she collapsed against him, her hair coming undone and body covered in a new layer of sweat, legs quivering and her sex pulsing around his fingers.

“Oh, _mi amor_ … _mi amor_ ….” She wasn’t even sure what else to say, her body feeling so lightweight and airy that she might have been floating somewhere near the ceiling. He stroked her through her release, fingers gentling the heated flesh before slowly retreating. She moaned softly at the loss, legs squeezing together as a final shudder wracked her frame, and focused solely on catching her breath.

He wiped his fingers absently on his tank, licking his thumb and rolling the taste of her around his mouth with a satisfied hum. She watched him, feeling somehow detached from the scene, as if he had no more solid presence then the actor on the TV across the room.

“You sound beat, _mi vida_.” He tugged strands of hair from the remains of her bun, looping them around his fingers with a triumphant, self-congratulating smile. “I didn’t think you—”

“Shut up, Héctor.” Her voice rasped, hoarse from the guttural cries he’d managed to wrench from her. He fell silent, still combing through her curls as she slowly managed to gather her wits. “It’s your turn.”

“Hmm?” She struggled to sit up, peering down at him with bleary determination. She loved this man, and she was going to make him pay for helping her to realize it.

“It’s your turn.” Her fingers trailed over the hard bulge in his boxers, watching his stomach jerk beneath the tank. “You’re going to be wishing you’d worn some pants, _músico_.” He settled beneath her, a wide, challenging smile stretched from ear to ear as he stared up with dilated, darkened eyes.

“I _highly_ doubt you’ll ever make me regret it.” He paused, tongue running over his gold tooth. “But… you’re more than welcome to try.”

“Oh, I’m going to make you _eat_ those words."


	12. Day 13: Rimming(?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 13: Rimming(?)   
> Modern!AU
> 
> What does that mean, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This entire chapter is based off a joke from the discord server. Consider it a lighthearted interlude between all the sex. A breather, if you will.

“ _Lo juro por Dios_ : if you were any purer, they’d have to canonize you.” Héctor blushed, arms crossed and mouth turned in a rare scowl. His best friend ignored the look, dribbling the basketball idly before lining up for a shot. “You’re so _naïve_ ; are you eighteen or eight?”

“How was _I_ supposed to know he didn’t mean tire rims?” Héctor watched the ball bounce off the backboard with some satisfaction, gloating as Ernesto clicked his tongue, frustrated. He jumped forward to catch it, stumbling on the cracked ground of the makeshift court—really just an old concrete slab outside of their apartment building. The basketball goal wasn’t even a real goal: a piece of plywood with a spray-painted square and an old metal hoop for a basket.

“Ay, San Héctor.” Ernesto wrestled the ball from him, easy work considering the difference in their figures. Héctor might have been taller—just a _little_ , and that wouldn’t even count once Ernesto had the growth spurt he _knew_ had to be coming—but he’d managed to get some muscle mass while his younger friend was still the same beanpole scarecrow he’d been as a kid. “I’ll pray to you when I need to be oblivious.”

“¡ _Cállate_!”  Héctor blushed harder, watching as Ernesto ran to the goal and easily tossed the ball through the hoop with a practiced leap. It bounced off towards the parking lot, and he ran after it before it managed to do something terrible—like knock the side mirror off the landlord’s car.

“What happened? How’d you manage to get away?” Ernesto jeered, taking the ball from him and pretending to throw it in his face, catching it at the last second. He flinched automatically, jerking away from the ball before it could hit his nose, and swung a halfhearted punch when Ernesto laughed.

“Well….” One part of him knew that he ought to stop while he was ahead; apparently, his confusion was giving Ernesto more than enough fodder to make fun of him for the next six months. But Ernesto was more than his roommate: he was his best friend. Héctor didn’t have any family left, and Ernesto was the closest thing to a brother he’d ever had. Besides, he didn’t want to tell his _novia_ about his faux pas; if Imelda laughed at him, he’d never be able to live it down.

“C’mon,” Ernesto urged, nearly tripping as he tried to dribble the ball between his legs. “Just go ahead and be done with it, _hermano_.” Héctor breathed a sigh through his nose, pinching the bridge between his eyes as he steeled himself for another round of mocking.

“I told him I didn’t have a car, and he just laughed at me. Said I was ‘a hoot’—who even says that anymore?” he complained, pacing the length of the concrete slab while Ernesto practiced some showier moves. “So I assumed maybe he meant basketball; I mean, he _was_ a foreigner, and maybe his Spanish wasn’t so good, you know?”

“And so I said “Oh, sure! There’s a place we could go to play near my house, but I’ll have to check with my girlfriend and see what she’s doing this weekend before I finalize any plans.”. And he was… very _surprised_ that I had a girlfriend at all, actually.” Héctor looked down at his black concert tee, two sizes too big and hanging off his thin form. “I mean, I know I’m not the best-looking guy in town, but surely I’m not _that_ ugly… am I?”

Ernesto laughed so hard that he fell to the ground, sitting like a child with the ball between his knees and his head thrown back in near _screams_ of mirth. Even sitting up became too much and he flopped onto the slab, his chest heaving as he choked on his own breath. Héctor felt like his face would be permanently read after this, feeling the urge to do something very _unfriendly_ , like walk up and kick him in the dick while he was down.

“Is it really _that_ funny!?” he snapped after a moment, looking around and making sure no passerby were staring over at them. The lot was thankfully deserted, everyone hiding inside from the heat of the afternoon. Only fools like them—with only a fan and a window unit to give relief from the sweltering summer air—would bother being out in the sun.

“ _YES_!”

“Ay!” he groaned, scrubbing at his blistered cheeks. He couldn’t tell anymore if the sun or his humiliation made him feel like his temperature was 100°. “¡ _C_ _á_ _-lla-te_!” He yanked the basketball from Ernesto and dribbled hard, taking out his frustration before lining up and scoring a three-pointer. Ernesto caught it before it beamed him in the skull, trying to catch his breath before attempting to stand.

“He gave you every signal in the book and you _still_ couldn’t figure out he was gay… Héctor, I worry about you sometimes.” Ernesto faked him out again, but this time he grabbed the ball before it could be jerked away. They wrestled for it, knocking shoulders and shoving at each other before, once again, Héctor came out the loser.

“He was just so _open_ about it! I mean, maybe in the city, I get it, but… out here?” Héctor whistled, sucking in a breath between his teeth. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

“He was white and American, ¿ _no_? That’s just how they are.” Ernesto went for a slam dunk, thinking better of it at the last second and just doing a simple layup instead. With his mass, he was liable to have the entire hoop come falling down on top of him. “They’re like a… like chickens; too clueless to know when to shut up and stop clucking. Next thing you know, someone’s shot them for running their mouth at the wrong time.”

“I guess.”  Héctor watched him double back for a second layup, hands in his pockets. “It’s not my fault I didn’t know what a rim job was,” he pointed out after a moment’s thought. “I’m with Imelda— well, I mean… I like women.”

“You don’t have to be gay to do it.” Ernesto bent, ducking around an imaginary enemy before throwing a side shot; he cursed when it bounced off the hoop, a clang of metal ringing in the air as the ball bounced onto the sewer grate. He jogged after it, tossing it to Héctor before wiping his hands on his pants. “You’re just too innocent, that’s all. I bet you and Imelda—”

“What we do isn’t any of your business,” Héctor answered curtly. “But… for the record, what is it?”

“Am I really allowed to corrupt Saint Héctor’s mind? Won’t I go to Hell for that?” Ernesto laughed again, ducking when Héctor threw the ball at it head.

“Just tell me or drop it!”

“Okay, okay!” He waited for Héctor to fetch the ball before answering. “It’s when you go down on someone.” He wiggled his fingers, gesturing for Héctor to throw it to him. Héctor tossed it, and he bounced it twice before throwing it back. They settled into this new game, bounce-toss-catch. “But from the back.”

“The… huh?” Ernesto arched a brow, shaking his head before slapping his rear with a smirk. “Oh… _Oh._ ” Héctor’s nose wrinkled automatically. “People actually do that?”

“They say— _throw it_ , don’t just stand there—it’s supposed to feel pretty damn good.” He made a fist, serving it like a volleyball. He shook his hand, fingers clenching as the ball sailed through the air in a neat arc.

“Would you let someone do it to you, then?” He bounced it on his knees like a _fútbol_ , wincing as the heavy leather jolted his legs. He kicked it, toe jamming beneath it and sending it towards his friend’s chest.

“I dunno.” Ernesto tried to spin it on his finger, fumbling when it ricocheted off his nail. “If I was hammered, maybe. I wouldn’t do it to anyone else, though.” He tossed it in his hands, feeling its weight before throwing it onehanded back over to Héctor. “What about you, lover boy? If Imelda asked you to eat her ass tonight, would you do it?”

“She’d never ask it like that!” Héctor protested, resting the ball on his hip. “She’s a lady!”

“Ladies can be crude—trust me, those are the best kind.”

“I don’t like your type of lady.”

“And I don’t like _yours_.” They glared at each other a moment, lips pursed, and then Ernesto smoothed down his hair with a practice movement. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I mean… yes, of course.” Héctor nodded to himself, spinning the ball between his hands. He stared down at its twirling surface, thinking hard. “If it would make her happy, then I’d gladly do it. After all… you have to be open to try new things, right?” He grinned as he mimicked the onehanded throw, his own barely managing to clear the space between them.  

“Hngh.” Ernesto made a face, tongue stuck out. “Count me out. I’m a little surprised at you—I’d have to _really_ like someone to put my face anywhere near their ass. There’s got to be a line in the sand somewhere, eh?” He motioned for the ball. “Come on, _tortuga_.”  

“I do.”

“Hmm?”

“I do really like her.” He bounced the ball once, swallowing hard. “I mean… yeah.”

“Cute. _Throw the ball_.”

“I was thinking, ‘Nesto.” He bounced it again, hearing Ernesto’s words and yet, at the same time, not hearing a single one. “I get paid this Friday and was thinking… I really… I really do….”

“¡ _Apúrate_!” Ernesto snapped his fingers, growing irritated. Héctor choked on the words, jaw clenched as he bounced the ball harder than he meant to.

“I… I want to marry her!”

“— _What?!_ ” The basketball bounced past Ernesto’s legs, his arms hanging limply at his sides. “I… what?”

“I want to marry her.” The more he said it, the easier it was to say. “I… I love her, Ernesto.” He was breathing hard, an emotion bubbling up inside that left a goofy grin on his face. “Our third anniversary is next week. I want to buy her a ring and ask her to marry me. I think the timing’s right, you know?”

“But…” Ernesto looked over his shoulder at the ball, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side. His forehead creased, expression perplexed. “But what about our dream? We’re going to play for the world—”

“—as soon as we get the cash to tour,” Héctor finished, having heard the same words repeated to him ever since _secundaria_. “What about it?”

“What—but—we—you—” Ernesto sputtered, unable to make a single coherent sentence. Héctor nodded for him to get the ball, hands on his hips.

“I think I can tour _and_ be married,” he laughed. “Other musicians do it all the time. It’s no big.” Ernesto turned slowly, walking to get the ball. He stooped, picking it up, and kept his back turned for the longest time. “Uh, earth to Ernesto? Are we still playing, or are you getting tired?” he teased. “Can’t take the heat?”

“Heh.” That was the fakest laugh he’d ever heard, but when Ernesto turned his face was smooth and friendly again. “You’re funny, Héctor. We both know _you’re_ the one that wimps out first.”

“Oh really?” Héctor bounced on his heels, dancing like a prizefighter. “Come on then, enough fooling around. You and me, one-on-one.”

“Why? We both know I’ll win.” He jumped back up onto the concrete slab. “Mr. I-Don’t-Know-What-A-Rim-Job-Is.” He held the ball over Héctor’s head, tossing it from hand to hand behind his back and rolling his eyes. “We’re going to have to school you _before_ you get hitched, so you won’t embarrass yourself on your wedding night.”

“Ah… so you think I should?” Héctor stopped, looking up at him with eager, easy-to-please eyes. Ernesto was used to them, having seen that expression from the time they were little kids running up and down the street behind the _primaria_.

“Get schooled? Definitely.”

“Get _married_.” He shoved uselessly at Ernesto’s chest, bouncing off and nearly stumbling to the ground. “I want you to be one of my _padrinos_ ,” he admitted, in a more solemn tone. “You will, won’t you?”

“Of course.” His smile was a little too tight, but he shrugged before bouncing the ball in circles around Héctor. “I wouldn’t dare miss my own best friend’s wedding.”

“Great! And then when _I_ become a famous singer, you can say “ah, I helped provide the music for Héctor Rivera’s wedding!”” He laughed, ducking as Ernesto swiped at him. “No fair! Foul!”

“Whatever. I’ll also tell this story at the reception, if you don’t watch yourself.” He picked up an imaginary microphone, clearing his throat. “It all started the day Héctor was hit on by a homosexual middle-aged American man—”

“No!”

“He was so confused, and of course I had to set him on the straight and narrow—”

“’Nesto!”

“And now, I humbly offer my congratulations, as well as the hope that he can please his wife by giving her the best rim job he knows how—”

“ _Por Dios_ , I’m going to _kill_ you if you don’t _shut up_!”


	13. Day 14: 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 14: 69  
> Pre-Canon
> 
> She is a goddess, and he will always be her most devout worshiper.

He loved her so damn much.

Every part of her was so beautiful, so marvelous. He called her _diosa_ , but she had no idea how truthfully he meant it. It was more than just a pet name; it was _her_ , the way she looked in his eyes. Beautiful, powerful, sacred. And yet… somehow, she was also precious, fragile, something to be protected at any cost.

He wanted to be with her, close to her, in a way that he couldn’t achieve through mortal means. Even clasped to his chest, even when he was inside of her, it was never enough. The part of him deep inside, the part that was _him_ , his thoughts and emotions—his soul, his being—yearned to be a part of her in some bizarre, impossible way.

He wanted to push into her, all the way past the bone and muscle, down to the secret part that housed the being that was her: his _esposita_ , his morning and night, and everything in-between. He wanted to grab that, to hold it, fluttering, in his hands and feel her there. He wanted to press it against himself, to hold the two together until they forgot themselves. He wanted to be entirely surrounded by her.

There was something poetic in the notion, though he’d never openly discuss it with anyone, even her. It was a personal treat, something to think about after indulging in her body. He treasured the sentiment, saving it for nights where he lay awake, her tiny frame wrapped carefully in his arms and her soft breathing coloring the darkness.

Perhaps that was why he loved going down on her. The other men—gossiping neighbors, his peers, even his friends—lamented the very idea of kneeling between a woman’s legs. It was beneath them, and they simply _couldn’t_ be expected to do it often… if at all. But while he continued to drink with the others, nodding solemnly at their complaints, he could never muster up any of his own.

He adored the very idea, not even minding the whole kneeling bit; what was the act anyway, but supplication to his personal goddess? Everything about it was perfect, _she_ was perfect, and he could never get enough. Her creamy thighs, soft on his shoulders, locking around his head and drawing him further into her warmth, the sounds she made to urge him on, his name tumbling breathlessly from her lips—what wasn’t to enjoy?

He would have been more than happy with burying his face in her thighs, tirelessly working to bring her to the brink over and over (and over, and over, and _over_ , until she couldn’t even muster the strength to scream). It would have been enough to taste her, mouth and chin drenched with her essence, tongue searching every crevice for more. He would have made do with the sole reward of her pleasure, the ache woken by her voice eased by grinding into the straw tick. He would have suffered in silence, foregoing his own exoneration, all to please the celestial beauty before him.

But even in this he was blessed, remembered and rewarded. Her benediction rained down with every flutter of her lashes, her eyes both sweet and stern in their turn. Her voice, so melodic, better than any tune he could ever hope to craft; she tried to hide propriety-born bashfulness behind a matter-of-fact tone, pretending that the red stain on her cheeks was nothing more than a result of the day’s heat.

 _We’ll just do it together._ He could deny her nothing, not even this. It wasn’t his place to say no, not when her fingers caressed his hips and drew him towards her, loose hair tickling his stomach and thighs. Not when he wanted it, more than he wanted anything else—in that moment, at least.

He wanted to be flush to her, her breasts against his stomach and his body covering hers the way he did when they made love the usual way. But he was too tall, his spine curved just to reach her sex, the ache in his shoulder blades made worthwhile with that first delectable taste. He could drown in her, easily, stopped only by the way she bucked her hips when the sensations were too much.

He lost himself easily, her mouth taking him in. She really did hang the stars in the sky, his _diosa perfecta_ ; he could see them as her little tongue lapped and circled, tasting him as thoroughly as he did her. He sighed into her, delving even deeper, his tongue tracing patterns that she eagerly repeated. One single thread of sanity was focused solely on not thrusting into her mouth: he could let no harm come to her. He wouldn’t choke her, even if the need to move, to push further into that wonderful wet heat, was burning through every vein in his body.

No matter what he could do, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough for him; he had no way of properly showing her just how precious she was, the enormous space he held for her in his heart. He could only satisfy himself with drawing out her pleasure as long as possible, to give her what she deserved—for she _did_ deserve the world, and if he could make it shatter every now and again for her… well, it was only in his favor.

He kissed her thighs, her sex, her stomach; every part of her that he could reach was properly worshiped and tasted. Salty, musky, a myriad of flavors that left his toes curling into her hair, a warning in the back of his mind that he couldn’t close his thighs around her head no matter how much he wanted to.

Her voice vibrated up through him, highlighting his spine and sending shockwaves through his nerves. A wordless moan, enough to make his head swim, his resolve wavering with the tiniest thrust imaginable. Her nails dug into his hips, urging him further into her mouth, and he slipped fully.

His teeth found her thigh, body thrumming with the urge to mark her, to mar perfection. Only _he_ was allowed to savor, to touch and taste and indulge. Possessive, animalistic, cold—things he tried to avoid, crushing the desperate, dark needs until he could ignore them. She always brought them back to the surface, his baser instincts a snarling mess of impulses that might frighten her away, or earn her disdain.

But not now, her heels digging into his spine as she rocked her hips against his face. She’s using him, everything from his nose to his chin hers to do with as she pleases; he can’t help but be thrilled by it, and pressed her even closer.

His hands found her rear, squeezing and helping her along, guiding her thrusting body until her muffled cries reached a new pitch. It’s enough to send a shudder through him, one leg curled loosely enough around her neck that she can wrench herself away if the need arises. His pulse echoed in his ears, a rapid-fire chorus to the symphony they created.

Her back arched, foot kicking against his shoulders; she was close. He was reaching into her, eyes tightly shut, fingers grasping and body pressing, searching frantically for her soul. He wanted it in his hands, in his mouth. His tongue pushed deeply within her folds and she opened up, accepting him, arms squeezing around his hips and her throat vibrating against his cock. Her taste doubled, overwhelming and thick, an aphrodisiac in and of itself. He was addicted, the need to drink compelling him to lap up every drop like a man dying of thirst.

Her hand slid around his shaft and he felt the stickiness; whether it was his own sweat or her saliva, he couldn’t tell. Her gasping mouth covered him, drawing him in even further as her tiny, slender fingers worked him from the base up to her lips. She moaned again, tongue running over his head; he melted against the straw tick, his breath puffing against her hot core. That moan—he heard it so often in the kitchen, her lips closing around a spoon instead of his sex, a little sound of delight. She found him delicious.

The thought was enough to send him over the edge: a familiar pressure, the first spasm, the point of no return. There wasn’t enough time to warn her, his body tensing and hands sliding down her spine as though he could push her away from the back. He cried out when her nails ripped into his flesh, pressing his hips as close to her face as she possibly could. She devoured him, a sacrifice that he willingly gave, her throat swallowing his offerings. Her lips lovingly kissed his softening length, offering blessings by the handful as she nuzzled against his thigh.

He wasn’t enough; he knew that he’d never be truly worthy of everything a goddess could give him. He could offer his songs, his love, even his life, but she would still outshine any meager contribution on his part. Even his most precious gift, the tiny life that was barely a bump, an extra curve that could have been easily overlooked had she not told him what it was: he had no way of knowing if that was enough to repay everything she’d ever given him. He didn’t deserve her.

He was eternally grateful that, for whatever reason, she didn’t feel the same.


	14. Day 15: Sweet and Passionate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GIVE IT UP FOR DAY 15! (ringing cowbell)   
> Day 15: Sweet and Passionate  
> Post-Canon 
> 
> Héctor is a little overwhelmed by his first night back in the living world. It's an emotional release.

“Well!” Imelda puffed, wiping a hand over her browbone as she looked over this year’s offerings. They’d missed the timing of the bridge the previous year thanks to Miguel’s little… _adventure_ ; it was almost as if her granddaughter had sensed it, and more than made up for it with this year’s haul.

The large dining table crammed into the dining room, enough to fit an entire houseful of Riveras, still wasn’t big enough to hold the lot. There were baskets hanging from every chair, filled to the brim with vegetables, fruits, and flowers. Every inch of the table held plates of food, succulent side dishes and mouthwatering main courses. There were plates stacked with heaps of tamales, every kind of meat imaginable, breads, beans, rice, rolls…. And _that_ wasn’t counting desserts: cakes and cookies, candies, sweets….

It was enough to last them for a month, if not more; the food offered by a loving family didn’t spoil in the Land of the Dead.  

And then there were the special gifts for each family member, left by those who remembered them in life. Imelda had a new pair of boots, made by the entire family—the letter that went them explained that even Benny and Manny helped pick out the laces. Victoria had a new book from her sister, a romance novel wrapped in butcher’s paper so that little prying eyes wouldn’t notice the scandalous cover. Julio had a new cowboy hat, and Rosita got a bouquet of the most beautiful chrysanthemums money could buy. Coco had a pair of dancing shoes, which made her eyes light up the moment she saw them. And Héctor had a guitar— _his_ guitar, a spiritual copy of the one Miguel still played for the world… and their family.

“I swear,” she sighed, a smile flickering over her features. “They just keep piling it on every year. One day, the _ofrenda_ is going to break beneath the weight of all this food.”

“I doubt that.” Felipe lifted the cloth covering one of his dishes, chewing at the bone that served as his lower lip. “For the first time in years,” he murmured, utterly blissful, “ _finally,_ my _mole_ is the right color. _Gracias a dios_ , I was getting so tired of red sauce.”

“It’s a little frustrating not to be able to tell anyone you liked _mole negro_ better,” his twin sympathized. “But now that Elena knows, I’m sure you’ll never have a mistake like that happen again.” 

“Oh, I’m sure of it.”

“And besides, they’ve added extra beer for the two of us. Our favorite kind!” Oscar grinned. “It’ll taste good with that _mole_ , no?”

“I can’t wait!” Felipe agreed. “I wish I had a tongue, just to lick my lips!”

“You’ll just have to wait until later,” Imelda reminded them, arching a brow. “You know how eating so early gives you indigestion.”

“ _S_ _í_ , **_Mamá_**.” 

“But I see some of us just couldn’t wait until we had a nap?” Imelda looked past them, to where Victoria had an opened bottle of soda in her hand.

“I couldn’t help it,” she retorted, unrepentant. There was a genuine smile on her face—a rare, childish smile, nothing like the dignified smirks she usually gave. “Coca-Cola tastes so much better when it’s on the _ofrenda_. Compared to this, the soda here just tastes.. _flat_. And anyway: Mamá’s been sneaking her offerings, too.”

“It’s true,” Coco laughed softly, her smile soft and warm. She cupped her mug of _atole_ with both hands, steam rising into the cool pre-dawn air. “I’ve missed Elena’s _atole_. She was the only one besides you who could get it just right,” she added, beaming at her mother.

“All this must be from Miguel,” Rosita guessed. She plucked the corner of a rich chocolate cake left before her _ofrenda_ photo, sucking the icing from her fingertip with a little sound of delight. “Elena isn’t usually this extravagant!”

“I’m sure he had a hand in it,” Imelda agreed, shaking her head with a fond expression.

“It only makes sense,” Coco pointed out. “Miguelito would know more about what you would miss from the living world… more than anyone else in the family, anyway. Even Elena couldn’t know how this land works, unless she saw it for herself.” Miguel had secretly told her of his _Día de Muertos_ adventure while she was alive, but she hadn’t been able to understand much of it until crossing the bridge upon her death.

“He’s a good boy.” Julio yawned, stretching his arms over his head. One fell around his wife’s shoulders, a subtle move that had her giggling like a young schoolgirl. She shuffled closer, resting her bony frame against his; her kiss clacked softly against his cheekbone. Victoria rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her cola. “I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m bushed.”  

“I haven’t walked so far since I died, I think.” Coco rubbed her hip, smiling faintly. “Or before, for that matter. But it was worth it, to see everyone again.”

“Yes, it’s always—”

“— _quite_ the trip over the bridge.”

“Then I suppose that’s the cue for us all to go to bed?” Victoria looked around at the group, mouth pursed knowingly. “Should we put all this away now, Abuelita?”

“No need; it will keep just as fine on the table.” Imelda put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing affectionally. “Everyone go upstairs and get some rest. We could all use a good sleep after being up for so long.”

With a chorus of goodnights that followed them up the stairs, everyone marched up in neat order: her brothers, daughter and son-in-law, ‘honorary’ daughter-in-law, and her granddaughter. Imelda watched them fondly, her heart swelling with warmth for her family even as her own bones ached with weariness. The ailments of the living didn’t plague the dead, but that didn’t stop her from having the bones of a seventy-year-old woman. She felt her age when she exerted herself, especially on special nights like this. She’d done her share to carry all the food home, and now her arms and legs held the almost-pleasant weight of good exercise. 

“Well,” she said once she heard the final goodnights and doors slamming up and down the landing. “Now, Héctor.” She spared a glance to her husband, who stood so quietly beside the table. He stared down at the food, his eyes moving slowly over the offerings; the guitar was still held safely in his arms, its weight solid now that they were back over the bridge and in their own land again. “Is something wrong? You’ve barely said a word since the _fiesta_.”

“Huh? No, no.” He blinked at her, startled out of his thoughts. She moved to stand beside him, a hand on the back of his ribcage. She couldn’t help but be a little protective of him, this night. It was his first night back to the living world in a century; she’d known ahead of time that it would be an overwhelming experience. It helped that Santa Cecelia had reason to stay semi-locked in time, first as de la Cruz’s birthplace… and now his.

“I’m sure you must be exhausted by now, _mi amor_.” She wanted to ask again if he was alright, or demand that he answer truthfully, but she knew that he just needed time to sort through the myriad of emotion he’d experienced. Her hand ran lightly up and down his spine, fingers catching on the edges of the mended vest.

Victoria had patched it on her old sewing machine, using the fabric from his remaining shirt sleeve to hem the frayed edges and repair the hole in the back. Rosita had gifted him a set of shining silver buttons for the front, which made it seem like an entirely new piece of clothing. The entire family had come together, really, to set him to straights. It was only proper, now that he was back where he belonged.

“I… I suppose,” he admitted softly, running a hand over his face. “I’m not tired, not exactly. I’m just glad that— well, I mean….” He faltered, thumb running down the neck of his guitar. “I had a great time, it was… Imelda, it was better than I ever imagined it to be, it was so wonderful. _Everyone_ is so wonderful.”

“Our family,” she reminded him softly. “Now they know all about you, too. It’s all as it should be.”

“ _S-S_ _í_.” His voice wavered, vertebrae dipping as he swallowed. “I spent so long crossing the bridge that I never thought about what it would be like when I was actually there.” She stepped closer to him, head resting on his shoulder. The joint moved slightly beneath her cheekbone, his arm winding around her waist in a move that was quickly re-becoming automatic for him.

“I hope it didn’t disappoint.”

“No!” He inhaled, a sharp expansion of his chest that sputtered out in a low sigh. “It was everything I hoped for, and more.” He looked around the tiny dining room, at the offerings spilling from every corner. “I just don’t know what to think about it all. There’s so much to take in. The concert at the plaza, the bridge, the _fiesta_ ….” He shook his head, his eyes holding the same sense of awe he’d worn the moment he first stepped onto, instead of through, the bridge.

“Too much excitement,” she quipped, taking the guitar from him. She studied it a moment, eyes tracing the designs she knew by heart, even after all these years. It was her special gift to him, a present to fit his love of both _calaveras_ and _música_. It had been one of the most expensive things she’d ever bought, but it had been worth it.

It had broken her heart to see it in Ernesto’s hands, forced to walk past that gaudy statue interpretation every time she went to market.  She’d thought, at the time, that he’d given it away to his friend, a symbol of leaving his old life behind before striking off wherever he’d gone: he’d abandoned it, just like he’d abandoned his family. The sinister truth, however, was somehow easier to take in comparison. Perhaps murder had taken the guitar away from him, but family had managed, in a roundabout way, to bring it home to his arms.

“Perhaps.” Héctor watched her as she placed the guitar carefully beside the table, propped in the corner between two baskets of apples. She centered it, smiling down at the gift before turning and looping her arm through his.

“Well, I think it’s time we went up to bed as well. We both need our rest.” He didn’t answer, rooted to the wooden floor with his eyes still locked on the cornucopia of offerings on the table. He let her arm slide from his, looking away only when she laced their fingers and gave a small tug. “Your _chapulines_ aren’t going to hop away, Héctor,” she teased softly, tugging again. “Come. Bed.” 

“… _S_ _í_.” He followed her up the stairs, his feet dragging against each step as compared to her brisk pace. She slowed, afraid  that she would wrench his shoulder from the socket, and patiently waited for him to catch up. She didn’t need to look behind her to know that he was staring over his shoulder, seeing the moonlight reflected off the polished wood of his guitar, the softly glowing rinds of the melons and apples, the muted shadows of the heaped baskets.

Coco and Julio were speaking softly in their room, shadows moving beneath the closed door as they prepared for bed. Victoria’s room was dark, and the lamp barely cast a glow beneath Rosita’s. The twins waved at them from the open bathroom door, brushing their teeth with the single-minded unison.

She drew Héctor into her—their—own bedroom, closing the door with a soft _click_. The room was dim, the curtains closed against the rising sun. The only light came from the bedside lamp, lit the night before in preparation for their sundown departure. Imelda walked slowly to the boudoir table, her hands automatically reaching up to pull the pins from her braid. Her hair uncoiled, falling down to her waist in a neat plait, ribbons fluttering loosely.

Héctor watched her silently from the door, his eyes following her hands as she neatly folded her purple ribbons and draped on the table. She kept her hair in its plait, knowing from a lifetime’s experience how messy it could be if left down all night. She glanced at his reflection, fingers fumbling to find the clasp on her choker.

“Héctor? Aren’t you going to get undressed?” He didn’t answer, eyes darting to the door before he took a hesitant step forward. His hand snuck to his other side, squeezing his forearm in short bursts as he looked around the room. “Héctor, what’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t know.” He looked so lost, standing in the middle of the bedroom. She turned, crossing the rug until she was before him; she untangled his fingers, taking his hand in her own. “I just… it seems like a dream, sometimes. Tonight, more so.”

“What does?”

“Everything.” He took a ragged breath, glancing up at the high ceiling above their heads. “I just keep—I don’t know how to explain it. I keep expecting for it all to fade away…. I’ve had so many dreams about what it must be like, to be… to have….” His hand tightened around hers. “I’m so happy, I don’t know what to do with myself. This— surely this is just another one. I’m going to wake up in the bungalow, in Shantytown, and… it’ll all be gone.”

“It’s no dream,” she assured him, breaking his hold to reach up and slide the vest from his shoulders. It fell at his feet, and she didn’t bother picking it up. He had more clothes where they came from, and besides—today they would rest. There was no need for chores until tomorrow; there were no animals to feed, no firewood to chop, no meals to cook. Even Pepita had enough food in her dish to last until tomorrow afternoon.

“I… I can hardly believe it.” He smiled faintly, looking down as she carefully unclasped his suspenders. She loosened the rope he still kept as a belt (he insisted on wearing it, saying that he’d won it fair and square), letting his pants pool around his ankles. He stepped out of his wingtips and stood before her, unashamed in his nakedness.

There wasn’t much to see, now that he was nothing but bones, but the clinical rigidity still struck a chord somewhere deep within her. She could see the outline of his thin chest in his narrow ribcage, the rising v of his hips in the shape of his pelvis. She knew that body well, even after a hundred years apart, and it was still so very, _very_ dear to her.

He went to turn back the bedsheets as she reached for the clasp on her own dress. Thankfully now that she was dead, there was no need for corsets to keep her shape; the dresses in the Land of the Dead were made to fit, using the natural shape of the hips and spine for an hourglass figure virtually impossible in the living world. This did mean that larger shapes were, oddly enough, more desirable; in a world where everyone was automatically as skinny as possible, the women had to find ways to stand out.

Thankfully, Héctor didn’t seem to mind her lack of… _padding._ She felt herself too old to keep up with the latest trends, sticking to her old handmade ‘granny’ dresses and plain, sensible accessories. Perhaps it made her a product of her time, but she was proud that she still looked young for her age. No one outside of the family ever managed to guess her _real_ age, and it only helped that Héctor paid no more attention to her age than he did their daughter’s. Coco was still his girl, and she was still his wife. It didn’t matter to him that of the three, his bones were _technically_ the youngest (though in mental years, of course, he was her equal).

Her skirts crumpled to her feet and she slid out of her bloomers—built for modesty, not purpose, for they surely weren’t needed _now_. She started for the chest of drawers, in search of a fresh nightgown, but paused when he looked at her over his shoulder. His eyes were still dazed, a spark missing in their depths; as they traveled over the exposed breadth of her hips something kindled behind the soft brown irises.

She went to him, the sloping heels of her boots giving her hips an extra swing and her braid dancing over her left shoulder. Sitting on the bed, she looked up at him with a sweet, placating expression.

“My boots… ¿ _ayúdame, por favor_?” He knelt obligingly, his long fingers deftly untying the laces and easing the boots off her feet one at a time. She felt a soft shiver run up her leg when he grasped her fibulas, holding her foot steady. Those long fingers had been some of her earliest fantasies in the living world, seeing him play the guitar and imagining what else he could do with his talented hands.

He let her boots lay where they landed, his hands falling to her thighs. He caressed the length of her femurs, his hands slowly tracing the bone as if he were committing them to memory for the first time. Even knelt between her legs, he was still tall enough that he didn’t need to incline his head far to meet her eyes.

She reached out, running a hand through his hair and feeling its softness. It hadn’t taken long at all to get messy, dancing around the way he had in the Land of the Living. Just like his real hair had been, this was thick and silky in her fingers, slipping like water and standing up wherever she pushed it.

He rose to sit beside her on the bed, leaning in to kiss her cheek with boyish affection. She felt a phantom blush at the simple gesture, leaning in to rest her forehead against his. Their first foray with intimacy in their ‘new’ bodies had been startling, finding out what their limitations could do. The second was frantic, the third teasing, and the rest followed into the pattern of their moods. She found now that she enjoyed the slower moments with him, something they never had much of—to her memory—in the living world. Just _existing_ beside him, able to touch and be with him, was sometimes more than enough. Anything after that was an added bonus.

His hand slowly slid up to her ribcage, knuckles brushing up the side of her sternum until she leaned into the touch with a low sigh. He slid them back down, fingertips dipping into the gaps between each rib and tracing the curve down to where they ended. She jerked when he reached her most ticklish one, shifting on the bed with a muffled laugh when he slowly teased it.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, a little surprised to find his eyes closed. Normally he was looking at her the entire time, sometimes even when they kissed. He always said he’d missed so much that he never wanted to miss another moment, and yet here he was with his eyes closed. Perhaps he was just savoring the moment, the way she did when touching him at her leisure?

“Héctor….” She cupped his jaw, thumb rolling over the brilliantly colored markings on his cheekbone. He pressed into her palm, his free hand rising to hold it against his face. His eyes slowly opened, looking her over in the lamplight; there was a solemnity that startled her, his mouth drawn in a small, thin line. She smiled, trying to lighten his mood, and breathed an internal sigh of relief when his brow smoothed to something more normal.

He drew her in for a kiss, his hand slipping under her ribs to trace the backside of her sternum. She breathed a soft moan into his mouth, arm winding around his neck. The inside of her ribs were sensitive, the slightest touch sending sparks from the roots of her hair down to her toes. The slight awkwardness of having something inside her, where her brain said nothing should be, was overrode by the tickling, tingling pleasure that his fingers wakened.

 She let him nudge her face into a better angle, her hand steadying his jaw to keep their teeth from smacking together. It amazed her, the depth of his kisses; he had no nose, no tongue, not even real lips, and yet he was still able to steal her breath and leave her panting for more. Part of it was his quiet insistence, the pressure he used to his advantage, pressing her back against the kitchen counter or the workroom table, or even into her goose feather pillow.

“’Melda,” he mumbled, peppering kisses along her jaw. She tried to follow him, her mouth searching for his, craving just one more incessant brush of his lips. He smiled, teasing her with faint, barely-there kisses, his lips parted before he glanced down. His hand left the haven of her ribcage, hovering over her pelvis. “Do you wanna?” he asked, words slurred as she nibbled at his lower lip.

“Always,” she answered, her voice a soft coo. She didn’t wait for him to push her back onto the bed, laying against the sheets in the center of the bed and feeling how easily the mattress curved around her bones, supporting her. It was so different from the firm rope backing of a straw tick mattress; this seemed to be a queen’s bedding, not something for a lowly shoemaker. It was made of temp-or—temur—toner— _memory foam_ , Victoria called it. Something _astronauts_ used, if that salesman was to be believed.

He knelt between her legs, bending to kiss her again. It was astounding, how much of his spine had to twist, compress, for him to meet her. The lengths he went to for her, straining himself to give her everything she ever asked for… it was enough to make her heart ache for him. She caressed his shoulders, hands running up to weave her fingers through his hair. His thumbs hooked on her clavicle, a thrill shooting through as he yanked it just enough to pull against the memory holding her bones together.  

“You sure?” he asked, kissing her temples.

“I want you,” she breathed, an insistent heat growing in her lower stomach. It flickered when his mouth moved down to her sternum, kissing a line down it as his knees buckled beneath him to accommodate his height. A phantom heartbeat pounded in her ears, her nonexistent core throbbing in time with its frantic rhythm. A hundred years, and he still knew exactly how to make her a squirming, gasping mess; she could hardly blame him for it, when she was the one who gave him the keys to her pleasure.

“Héctor, _por favor_ —” His eyes met hers, even as he dipped his head to nibble at her lower ribs. His goatee tickled her sternum, teeth scraping gently over delicate bone until she couldn’t help but raise her knees and box him in. “Now…?” He said nothing, crawling his way back up the mattress until he rested in the crook of her thighs. The mattress held them both, silencing their movements as his pelvis aligned to hers. She shivered, the anticipation keeping her hips locked to the sheets even as she wanted to lift them and meet him halfway.

His first thrust was always to test the waters, slow and steady, barely any pressure. Still, it was enough to immediately relax her; the promise of more had her body opening to him without fail. One hand slid beneath her pillow, fisting in the soft feathers and grounding her as he began to rock them both. Her shoulders slumped, head falling back as he pressed down into her, an upward flick grinding the front of his pelvis over hers with a jarring, but oh-so-satisfying clack of uneven bone.

Her eyelids fluttered, the increasing force of his movements jolting her body against the mattress. Her bones moved in tandem, everything from her vertebrae to her metatarsals bumping together; with nothing between them but the memory that strung her together, every touch sent little flickers of warmth and pleasure straight to her core. She lifted her hips after a moment, trying to match his speed with thrusts of her own.

He broke the rhythm once, his hips pressing hers deep into the mattress and dragging over her until she cried his name, toes curling into the thick quilt at their feet. His hand swept tendrils of hair from her face, brushing her fake lashes before following the intricate plait down to its tail. He wound it in one hand, thumb digging into the soft loops of hair and separating them, burying his fingers in the twist.

The movements warmed her from the inside out, natural kinetic energy warring with the memory of perspiration and the friction of rubbing bones. Added to the emotions that coiled inside her, heating the bubbling pool in her stomach and thrumming in time to her heart, she felt as if he could burn her down to her very essence, refining until she was something smooth and polished.  

Something dripped onto her face; for a quick, thoughtless moment they were alive, and it was his sweat. Then, a niggle in the back of her mind, a reminder that something wasn’t right, that it couldn’t be; she opened her eyes to see him bent over her, shoulders trembling even as he continued to buck against her. She blinked, looking up in shock as another drop landed on her forehead.

“Héctor?!” At the sound of his name, a tremor wracked his thin frame and another flurry of tears hit her skull. They slid down her cheeks, trailing as though she were the one crying. “Héctor, what’s wrong?” She reached up to him, droplets landing on her outstretched fingers. His mouth twisted, trembling at the corners as his unsteady hand smoothed over the marks on her forehead.

“ _He soñado esto antes_ ,” he whispered, the words thick with tears. A hiccup shook his ribs, voice breaking as his fingertips trailed to her chin. “ _Que dijiste que me amabas, y que yo era el amor de tu vida, y que eras_ ….” His words were lost on a heavy sob, shaking arms buckling under him until he was pressed against her, bawling into the crook of her neck. “ _Imelda… Imelda—”_

She didn’t try to hush him, knowing that it would do no good. It would only serve to embarrass him, and perhaps deter him from coming to her. He was vulnerable, in her arms, his hips frantically rocking against hers. She shook, both from the sensation and the feeling of his helplessness, her arms winding around his back to hold him as tightly against her chest as she could. The delicious pressure mounted steadily, his body so taunt over hers that she couldn’t but feel the effects of it, even with her mind distracted.

“ _No quiero que sea un sueño_ —” he wept, clutching her as if he expected her to vanish into thin air. “ _Por favor, por favor, no….”_ She bit off a cry as his hips snapped against hers, the resounding clack louder than his tears. She felt the growing dampness of the pillow, the stickiness between his cheek and hers, the bangs flattened against her temples; she realized half the tears were her own, spilling so silently from her socket that she barely noticed.

“ _No es_ ,” she assured him, her own voice ragged and choked with emotion. “ _No es_ , Héctor; _tu eres el amor de mi vida para siempre_ , _prometo—_ ”

“ _No me dejes, no me dejes solo_ — _ah_ — ** _ah_** —” His fingers threaded through her back ribs, hips stuttering as he cried out. She felt the first quiver deep in the seat of her pelvis, rising automatically against him as his legs began to shake.

“Never,” she whispered, palms flat and crushing him to her chest. Something within her stirred; the world was falling apart and she was ready, the first rays of dawn catching the sheer gap between the curtains and sending it shimmering in the light. “Héctor, _mírame_ —” She reached for him, her hand leaving the safety of the pillow to find his chin.

Her fingers slid on the wet bone, finding their grip near his neck and pushing him up until his forehead was against hers. His eyes opened as much as they could, tears still flowing freely even as he gasped, trying to choke back the sounds he was making. She held his cheeks with both hands, their tears mingling as they slid to join the wet pillowcase.

“ _Te amo_.” She tried to smile, her mouth not wanting to cooperate as something dangerously close to a sob bubbled up in her throat. He nodded, managing to sniffle without a nose, or snot for that matter.

“ _T-t-e am_ —ah— _Ime_ —” Her name was the last thing he managed to choke out, his shoulders curving in and body shuddering as his orgasm overtook him. His breath trailed off in a whimper, fingers curling hard enough in her ribcage that she felt them on the inside as well. That, along with his last few faltering thrusts, was enough that she fell over the edge. She managed to get in one good breath, lips parted in a silent cry as a warm rush swept through every bone in her body, leaving her jellied and spent.

“Héctor….” They both slipped to the side, arms still locked around each other as they fought to catch their breath. He choked out a few more tears, sniffing audibly, while she let her own flow freely and quietly, serene when compared to his emotional breakdown.

“ _Te amo_ ,” he finally managed, jaw trembling visibly. “ _Gracias_ , _gracias_ ….” His mouth fluttered over her forehead, her cheeks, wet kisses that sent little shivers down her spine. She hushed him, her fingers on his lips; she reached down and pulled the quilt over the both of them, tucking her head beneath his chin and keeping him pulled as close as possible.

“ _Te amo_ ,” she repeated, pressing a kiss to his sternum. “Sleep, _mi amor_. Rest.”

“ _S_ - _s_ _í_.” His arms tightened around her, chin digging into her scalp. “Don’t… wake me up before you leave.”

“I will… if you will.”

“ _S_ _í_.” Already he was calming, his heaving chest subsiding as he gave into something more peaceful. She said nothing else, curling further into him and letting her weariness take over. Her bones ached, in a good way, her release—and her tears—easing something that had been pulled taunt within her. “Goodnight, _mi amor_.” She roused herself long enough to press her mouth to his chest, less a real kiss and more just an answering touch.

“Goodnight.”


	15. Day 17: On the Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 17: On the Floor  
> Pre-Canon
> 
> It all started with a single look.

 How did she even end up on her back?

It was a blur, muddled, something about _naranjas_ and _música_ and Héctor—Héctor, who right now was pushing her skirts up towards her waist. His large hands smoothing over the crisp white of her bloomers, long fingers pressing into her skin through the sun-bleached fabric as he shoved the swathes of purple fabric to rest over the rise of her hips. 

She struggled to sit up, her palms digging into the tiled grooves as she fought her way up to her elbows. Her knees were bent, hair falling out of her bun in uneven tendrils to frame her face as she stared up at him—she had to, his tall frame easily overshadowing hers even as he bent over her prone body. She tried to push her skirts back to her knees, maintaining some semblance of decency, but her hands were swatted away; with a skilled yank, her spine once again met the floor.

“Héctor—” Her voice didn’t seem her own, high and breathless, legs trembling and face flushed with a mixture of shock, anger, and something she didn’t want to name. “Héctor Rivera, how dare you—let me up!” she sputtered, embarrassment burning everything from the tips of her ears down to her neatly-buckled shoes.

And yet, despite her mortification, she wasn’t trying to get away; she couldn’t, not without first giving him a tongue lashing he’d never forget. A part of her wanted him to look, to see her legs, her undergarments, the strip of dark stomach in the gap between her skirts and the waistband of her bloomers. She wanted him to look and to like what he saw, to want to touch her, to run those long, long guitarist fingers of his down her calves, over her thighs, _between_ her thighs—

She didn’t understand. This was just Héctor. Stupid Héctor Rivera, with his stupid big ears and his stupid crooked smile and his stupid guitar, his stupid head still growing taller even after she and all the other girls had stopped, his stupid voice cracking and lowering until she could feel it in her stomach every time he said her name, the stupid _hair_ growing on his chest, bared against the summer heat, on his chin and even down his stomach, to the waist that she knew she shouldn’t stare at, but looked more and more enticing every single day….

Without warning he ripped off her bloomers, exposing her thighs to the open air. She yelped at the shock of cold tile against her rear, heels scrabbling against the glazed floor as she tried to back away from him. His hands landed on her knees, holding her legs apart until he could shuffle up to kneel between them. She was torn between fury and fear, the sensible part of her mind wondering what would happen if someone were to walk in on them this way.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, the cold on her lower half raging a war against the heat in her face. It seemed to trickle down the back of her neck, sweat sticking to the collar of her dress as the heat pooled even farther, settling in her stomach. Her heart beat a frantic tattoo against her ribs, pulse thundering in her ears. She waited for him to answer, to do something more than watch her with those soft, solemn eyes that seemed to see right through her.

His eyes fell away from hers, down to the apex of her thighs. His fingers tightened on her knees when she instinctively went to close them, callouses scraping at the smooth skin that hardly saw sunlight, much less anyone else’s touch. She felt a new wave of heat come over her, a shudder running down her spine as he gazed, unblinking, at her exposed body.

What did he see? She couldn’t help but wonder. The folds, were they what kept his attention? The dark hair curling between her legs? The thickness of her thighs, soft flesh pulled taunt as he eased her open? He licked his lips and she felt the air leave her lungs in a shaky hiss, her focus entirely on his lips. What would it be like to kiss him? What would he do if she pressed her mouth to his, stealing his breath and drawing him down until his body—his _body_.

She wanted him to press her against the tile, leaving just enough room for her to unbutton the loose white shirt that flapped around his skinny frame. She would press her fingers through the gaps, feeling the hair that so often caught her attention when he was at work with the other young men, his thin chest hers to explore. His skin would be sun-warmed, unlike her own soft, cool breast, and she would soak up every bit of it like a sponge until she was hot all over. 

“H-Héctor?” She sounded even less in control now; her voice startled her, frightened her. She sounded nothing like the prim young woman she was, her mother’s daughter and her father’s pride. She sounded like the stupid little girls that sighed and swooned over the muscled men in the plaza, their straining bodies and animalistic grunts sending all the admirers into fits. She rolled her eyes at them, and yet here she was, just as bad and for someone who was the exact opposite of the ‘ideal’ body type.

Her traitorous mind flashed back to that very morning, watching him work in the line of men unloading sacks of wheat from the back of a cart. Perhaps he was scrawnier than the other men, but that only made his lithe body more apt to catch her eye. The sun, climbing in the sky, had already kissed him with a sheen of sweat that plastered his bangs to his forehead, dark skin glistening as he shifted from foot to foot. Her mouth had gone dry at the sight of it, hands tightening in her _rebozo_ as she peered around its fringed edge.

His lean build fascinated her, from the sinewy movements of his arms to the way his ribs were outlined as he inhaled, skin dipping into shadow to show the natural curve of his ribcage. It led to his flat stomach, an inward dip that ran straight into the trousers sagging low on his narrow hips. He’d ran those damn fingers through his hair as she watched, nodding at something Fernando-the-butcher’s-son said, his shoulders shaking and mouth twisted in laughter.  

His eyes had met hers across the field as he’d looked around, waiting for one of the Rodríguez boys to throw him another sack. Of course, he’d immediately been hit in the head with said-sack and crumpled to the ground like a dead horse; still, for that one moment when he looked at her, his eyes curious and mouth slack, she’d felt—she’d been—

One finger parted her folds and she squealed in surprise, her mind jerking back to the present. She kicked out one leg, trying to beam him in the back of the head with her shoe.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she snarled, using some of the ‘rough language’ her parents had always tried to shield her and her brothers from. “You don’t have any right to be—” The rest of her words were lost on a gasp, feeling his fingers slide easily up her center. Her face was on fire, body tingling in strange places and torn between screaming for help and… letting him keep going.

He pulled her closer, her body sliding easily on the smooth, slippery tile. He ran his hands beneath her thighs, and farther up to cup her rear in both hands. She let out a little warning growl, but something deep within her was actually _relaxing_ at the feel of his hands. He squeezed softly and she sighed, eyelashes fluttering as the heat between her legs doubled. The air no longer felt cool; rather, it seemed to be even warmer than before, her lungs fighting to get a good breath in.

She rose again to her elbows, lips parted as she watched him adjust his grip on her backside. Her legs spilled over his elbows, bloomers in a rumpled heap near the patched leg of his trousers. Their eyes met, and the feelings from earlier came back as she stared openly at the soft brown of his irises; they seemed to melt into the black of his pupils, rich with a hint of reddish mocha. He blinked, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks, and to her embarrassment she felt a warm rush dampen her exposed curls.   

His eyes flickered to her core and back, head slowly dipping as he looked to her—for what? Approval? Censure? Did he expect her to stop him? She _should_ have been trying to stop him, she knew she should. She ought to have been screaming at the top of her lungs, fighting him tooth and nail instead of lying so quietly with her legs open. She shouldn’t have been acting like this was something she _wanted_ , but— She didn’t know what he was going to do, and yet she did know, as easily as she knew hot to be hot and cold, cold.

He came close enough that she felt his breath stirring her curls, soft and humid against her sex. Her elbows slid from beneath her and she fell against the floor, her eyelids suddenly too heavy. Her bun dug into the upper half of her neck, but she couldn’t lift her head enough to even adjust her position. He still managed to loom above her, arms pushing her legs until they rested almost on his shoulders.

He was going to taste her. She knew it from the look in his eyes. But—was that wrong? Certainly this was all wrong, he shouldn’t have been here with her, alone, on the floor and with her underwear lying beside them as though it had been planned from the beginning. But this wasn’t sex, this wasn’t their naked bodies sliding together, slicked with sweat and trying to create a child out of wedlock. Her legs weren’t spread for his cock like an alleyway whore. It was just him, and her, and he wanted to taste her, and she couldn’t think of any good reason for him _not_ to, at least not if he was going to hold her hips up to his face like that—

The first few licks had her squirming against his mouth, brow furrowing at the new, odd sensation. It didn’t hurt, but neither did it feel very _good_. It was nice when he pressed a kiss to her mound, but—Just as she was about to demand he let her go, she caught sight of his expression. His tongue rolled in his cheek, sliding against his teeth with an inquisitive frown, and she knew plain as day that he was silently judging her flavor. She paused, locked on some hidden precipice and waiting for his decision.  

With a barely-there hum he went back to her core, lapping experimentally. Another sound from him vibrated her from the ground up, her mouth falling open as a new sensation tickled just beneath her stomach. He paused, drawing her hips up further to his mouth, and she felt her toes barely brush the kitchen floor as he knelt down. He offered her one crooked smile, eyes twinkling as if they were no more than two good friends, sharing in a lighthearted secret.

“Héct—” He buried his face in her center, and she was suddenly grateful that she was already laying on her back; she was sure that she’d have smacked her head on the tile otherwise. His tongue delved deeper, tracing over her entrance before flattening to mold to every crevice she had. She shivered, a low whine bubbling in her throat as she reached out blindly for something to ground her. Her toes scraped over the tile, knees interlocked over his shoulders as his hands pushed her as close to his face as he possibly could.

Her hand found the table leg and she wound her fingers around it, squeezing until her knuckles were white. Something rolled above her head, a flash of clarity stirring in her mind. _Oh, yes… the oranges…._ His tongue licked over a spot more sensitive than the others and she inhaled sharply, stars blinking behind her eyes. She felt him grin and scowled at his arrogance, even as her legs trembled and her body ached for something even more than the pleasant warmth of his mouth.

He focused his attention on that little spot, tiny licks interspersed with kisses. Her chest heaved, corset tight against her breasts, which themselves were heavy and throbbing with something like pain, but not quite painful. She spread her legs further on her own, spine protesting as she gave into the need to lift her hips and ease the thick tension growing taunt at her core.

A broken moan filled the room and she balked, recognizing the hoarse sound as coming from her own throat. To her shock he returned it, a similar sound rumbling in his chest, quivering against her heated flesh when it reached his lips. She melted against the tile, her bones jelly and throat exposed, spine arching and eyes sliding shut. She let herself go, her cries climbing in intensity and pitch as he worked her towards some unknown peak.

After a small conflict between pride and need, she wove her fingers into his hair. If she was truthful with herself, she’d been wanting to touch his hair since the day he asked her if she liked dancing. She’d turned down the not-so-thinly veiled request, ignoring the hurt trying its best to hide behind his wavering smile. Even then, watching his dejected form shuffle back across the plaza, his hair had called to her. Bouncing, soft, fluffy and thick, covering his forehead and curling around those big, cute—damn it, they _were_ cute and she couldn’t deny it anymore—ears.

She looked, upside down, to the back door visible through the kitchen arch. Again she thought of the very real possibility of being caught like this; to her astonishment, a thrill ran through her veins at the thought of someone, _anyone_ —okay, maybe not her parents, but anyone else—coming and seeing her this way.

She, unpromised and unmarried, with a grown man’s face between her thighs, her hands in his hair and her hips willingly, _eagerly_ grinding against his face while she moaned his name and begged him to keep going, don’t stop…. It would be scandalous enough to send her mother to an early grave, but she couldn’t say no, not now, not when she was so, so, _so **close**_ —

The taunt, tight cord within her snapped and she screamed, biting down on her fingers to muffle the sound; a part of her realized that it wasn’t a wordless sound, the syllables running together to make his name, acknowledging that _he_ was the one who did this to her, he’d made her this way and she was _grateful_ to him for it—

If only he’d actually been the one to do it.

As the rushing  pleasure subsided, little spasming waves lapping at the fingers pressed against her sex, she let her head droop with a soft sigh. Her teeth had worn grooves into the meat of her fingers, the digits protesting with a dull ache that throbbed in time with the pulsing blood in her core. She slid further against the wall, resting her cheek against the cool plaster and leaning her knees against the foot of her bed for support.

Héctor. Even if no one had been around to hear his name fall breathlessly from her lips, there was no denying to herself. She’d climaxed while thinking about _H_ _é_ _ctor_. Her throat tightened, one damp hand—saliva, not her own wetness—running over her cheek. Even after all this, those soft eyes in her mind still sent a little shiver straight to her center. Why’d she have to even look his way this morning?!

Something like frustration welled in her breast, closing off her throat until she felt tears pricking at her cheeks. She’d rejected him outright once, months ago, and he hadn’t asked her to dance since then. She ought to have been happy, finally free of his heartfelt sighs and desperate bids for her attention, but… somehow, she wasn’t. It was fine when he was off on his own, or with that dumb Ernesto de la Cruz, but Gabriella had said just Tuesday that she’d heard from Inez who’d heard from Lola that Marietta’s sister Paulina had been seen holding hands with Héctor Rivera and she’d felt so… _so_ ….

Maybe it was better if no one—especially Paulina—knew what direction that rotten apple had come from.

And now, with the way he’d looked in the midmorning sun, and the softness in his eyes when he’d watched her across the field…. Of course she’d shaken her head when he dropped like a rock under the weight of the wheat, his eyes rolling as he stumbled to his feet amidst the loud guffawing of his peers, but just before then—

“ _Imeld-i-i-i-ita_!” She immediately leapt to her feet, legs trembling like a newborn colt’s. She adjusted her skirts, shifting her bloomers and hurriedly wiping the wetness onto the backside of her apron. Until she got to the rain barrel outside she could only hope that Mamá didn’t notice her red cheeks or rumpled clothes, that the scent of sex and guilt and need didn’t cling to her once she left the relative privacy of her bedroom.

She pushed thoughts of Héctor and his wonderful, beautiful eyes out of her mind, trying to replace it with more wholesome, purer, more domestic things that would keep her mother happy and her brain occupied. After all, unless he asked her to dance again… and even then, would she accept it? Shaking her head, she gave her skirts one last shake and allowed herself one wince at the wet, sticky feeling between her legs before flinging open the door and hurrying to whatever chore or errand awaited.

“Coming, Mamá!”


	16. Day 18 & 19: Morning Lazy Sex, Outdoors: Woods, Parks, Gardens,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 18 & 19: Morning Lazy Sex, Outdoors: Woods, Parks, Gardens,   
> Biker!AU 
> 
> Camping can be a very relaxing pastime... especially if you've got too much time on your hands.

_Dios… is that bird right outside the window?_

Imelda reached out blindly, groping for the bedside table. Her internal clock told her it was early, but close enough to wakeup time that she didn’t feel the stabbing pangs of a bad night’s sleep. Her mind was befuddled by the awkward press of the mattress into her lower back, and the scratch, unfamiliar feeling of the blanket. It didn’t feel at all like her bed, or her bedroom—the air had a strange taste, definitely cooler and fresher. But Héctor was snoring in her ear, his familiar warmth radiating at her left, so she _had_ to be in bed. Was this part of her dream, still?

 Her hand met plastic, not wood, and she opened her eyes to see a sunbeam-lit cloth fluttering in the stiff morning breeze. She blinked, turning towards where her phone should have been, and found tarp and strewn clothing beside two backpacks. She stared blankly, her mind going slower than usual; licking her chapped lips, she caught the taste of dried sweat and something ashy.

 _Fire?_ she thought, startled.

 _Campfire,_ her mind finally supplied.

 _Oh, right._ The camping trip. She relaxed, satisfied with the solution to her whereabouts. The earth beneath the tarp was dry and hard, making her even gladder that she’d insisted on carrying the air mattress with them. _I’m not breaking my back because you want to ‘rough it’, H_ _é_ _ctor Rivera_!

Even with the added padding of the mattress, her joints felt stiff and her lower back protested faintly when she shifted. She muffled a sigh, remembering a time when they could have sprawled out on sleeping bags and woke the next morning without a single problem. But she was going on thirty-two and Héctor was right behind her; they weren’t spry teenagers anymore. _Soon, I’ll be getting gray hairs and arthritis…._

 _Of course…._ She turned to look at her husband, who was still dead to the world. He snored loud to keep any kind of wild animals away; she was amazed that the birds weren’t frightened into silence by the grating sound. It was worse when he was on his back—his default position, unless she took the time to bully him onto his side after he was sound asleep. Wordlessly she combed her fingers through his hair, looking for the pinpoints of silver she knew she’d find near his ears. _Some of us are already graying._

He wasn’t bothered by her movements, having learned to sleep through anything after a lifetime of sharing rooms: first in foster homes, then with Ernesto, and finally her. She watched him sleep, biting her lip to keep from laughing when one heavy snore managed to vibrate his nose. She wondered how he could be comfortable on his back like that, with no shirt on and everything from the ribs up exposed to the early morning chill.

Another breeze shook the tent and she shivered, goosebumps erupting on her arms. She was wearing her usual makeshift pajamas: an old tee shirt and gym shorts. Cursing herself, she rubbed her shoulders and grabbed the blanket where it lay near her waist; she should have known the nights would be chilly, even if it _was_ the start of summer. _Next time, I’ll have to be more prepared,_ she vowed. Glancing again at Héctor, she cut her losses and crawled across the mattress until she was close enough to loop her leg over one of his. He was a veritable furnace, despite his lean frame, and there would be more than enough of his body heat for the two of them.

She fought the blanket, trying to drag it over their bodies while still leaving enough to cover his feet, which were hanging off the end of the mattress. Unless she was willing to lay her head on his stomach, there was no way to cover her entire body _and_ his; he was just too tall. After a moment she was forced to give up, letting his heels stay exposed while tucked the fringed edge of the woven cloth beneath her chin. She was the one who was awake, after all; her comfort came before his. If his feet were cold, he’d just have to wake up and move them back beneath the blanket, wouldn’t he?

She lay back down, his chest hair scratching her face and bony thigh locked between her own. Normally his heat was an issue, especially in the middle of summer, but in the cool stillness he became her personal heating pad. She snuggled against him, cheek nuzzling against his chest with a sigh of contentment. He stirred, some part of him noticing her presence without being fully awake, and buried his nose into her loose curls with a sleepy huff. 

There was a pocket of heat growing between them, just large enough for her hands. She put them there, chuckling when he jolted at the first icy touch of her fingers on his stomach. He mumbled something incomprehensible, his hand batting at hers through the blanket. Ignoring him, she felt over his bare stomach as her fingers began to warm up, mind drowsy and comfortable. It was sunrise, which meant it had to have been sometime after 6:00, but it was just too cold to get out from under the covers.

“Héctor….” She scratched lightly at his stomach, index finger dipping into his navel. He was ticklish there, she knew, but apparently not ticklish enough to wake up. If she could get _him_ up, he could go stoke the campfire’s ashes and get a nice blaze going. At the very least, they wouldn’t have to wait until the sun warmed the air to get some breakfast. “Héctor, _despierta por favor_.”

The only answer she received was another nose-vibrating snore, this time right in her face. Groaning under her breath, she shook her head and gave up the effort. After over twelve years of marriage, she knew better than to waste time on something that simply wasn’t going to happen. The world could end right now, the archangel Gabriel sounding his horn, and Héctor would be the only man on earth to sleep through it.

She flexed her fingers, still feeling a chill deep in her bones, and curled even tighter against him. One hand skirted the waist of his pajama pants, feeling the soft, over washed fabric beneath her fingertips. Feeling that the strings were loosened, she allowed her hand to slip under the elastic in search of a warmer resting place. He was _always_ putting his hands between her thighs in bed, excusing himself by saying that she was much warmer than any part of his body. It only stood to reason that the same could be said of him.

Her fingers found bare skin instead of boxers, and she rolled her eyes as his lack of propriety. Who on earth wore pajamas without underwear? Even when she wore a proper nightgown, she had on her panties if nothing else. Maybe it was just a man thing. _Well, since he’ll stay asleep anyway…._ She pressed on, finding his shaft and curling her fingers lightly around it. It _was_ warm, burning hot compared to the rest of his skin, and she let her fingers leech it from him with a greedy smirk. _No wonder he’s always doing this! It feels great!_

Curling her arm beneath his, she kissed his shoulder and let out another happy little sigh. Her warming fingers tapped a light, lazy rhythm on his shaft, feeling its softness; she didn’t usually _feel_ him in this state, used to dealing with either an erection or something halfway between the two. As if sensing her thoughts—or maybe just the stimulation, even while asleep—she felt it give the lightest of jumps beneath her touch.

Feeling adventurous, she let her fingers trail lightly up his shaft, taking care not to press too hard. The last thing she wanted was to chafe him by accident, and they weren’t at home for her to reach into the bedside table for lube. _Then again, if we were home we wouldn’t be doing this_ …. It was Saturday: Coco would be up watching cartoons, Ernesto’s feet draped over her lap while he slept through his hangover and the twins tinkering in their shed before breakfast.

There was no leisure time like this at home, at least not anymore. There was too much left over from the week to lay around in bed and ignore: chores, odd jobs, balancing accounts, groceries and late-week supply runs and— _too_ much. That was why Héctor had suggested this trip, even if she had been wary of riding the boys’ bike all the way out to this campground in the middle of nowhere. _We need a vacation, mi amor; it’ll only be overnight, I promise._

She had to admit, it was nice to wake up and not have to _get_ up if she didn’t want to. The sound of nature, while more beloved to her husband than herself, were relaxing. The birdsong, the quiet lapping of the river at the other side of the campground, the wind stirring the trees…. Much better than old cartoons on the _tele_ with the volume turned up to ear-splitting, or a muffled explosion from the backyard followed by cursing and radio silence.

She closed her eyes, one ear filled with nature while the other was attuned to the magnified sound of his breathing, the muffled thump of his heart and all the other weird, interesting, human-y sounds that made up her man’s chest. Her fingers continued their relaxed, teasing trail up and down his shaft, soaking in the heat and delighting in the way he expanded under her touch.

He shifted again, throat bobbing as he swallowed before exhaling with a low, soft sound. She turned her head enough to press a kiss on the smooth skin above his nipple, eyes raised to watch the way his long eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. She knew men were supposed to be handsome—and he was, no doubt about it—but those eyelashes of his were _beautiful._ She wanted a pair of her own; hers didn’t seem to measure up, no matter how much he praised them when covering her face with his goofy little _besitos._

“Héctor,” she sang softly, kissing his chest again. The coziness made her feel more… mischievous, in a way; in moments like these, she understood why he liked to toy around with her, his eyes lighting up when she halfheartedly complained. She traced soft, slow circles on the underside of his shaft, smiling when she felt it stiffen even more.

His eyes slid open, blinking in confusion at the ceiling the same way she had. Her fingers trailed over his head and back to the base, touching so lightly that it could barely be called a genuine stroke. He jolted, startled, a slow flush darkening his cheeks as he turned to her with a bleary, but welcoming gaze.

“Good morning,” she purred, batting her eyes as she nuzzled his shoulder. He smiled, the corner of his mouth trembling when she teased the head again before sliding down, the pressure just enough for his foreskin to stimulate him further.  

“Clearly,” he croaked, his voice hoarsened by sleep. It sent a thrill through her, even as she crinkled her nose against the staleness of morning breath.

“Your breath stinks,” she teased.

“So does yours,” he retorted, his hand finding her chin. He stretched up enough to kiss her, the mattress rocking under the now-uneven weight. “What— _mm_ —what did I do to deserve this?” he joked, head flopping back against the thin travel pillow.  

“Nothing. Do you want me to stop?”

“No, no… s’fine,” he slurred, breath hitching as she gently squeezed. She licked over his nipple, nipping at the skin around it until he let out a soft moan. “’Melda, _por dios_ —”

“What?”

“Feels good… feels— _nngh_ —really good….” His arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. His pants were scratchy against her inner thighs, his leg pressed against her core with a delicious pressure. He grabbed a handful of her rear and squeezed until she gasped, grinding harder on the solid heat between her legs. “You too,” he mumbled, reaching for her waistband, but she caught his hand before he could slip into her shorts.

“No,” she grumbled, squeezing his fingers. “Not yet.”

“But—” He was silenced, a single finger tracing the seam of his balls. She heard the mattress squeak as his toes curled into the side, the blanket tenting as his knees rose.

“I want to focus on you,” she cooed, rubbing her cheek affectionately against his ribs. His hand reached into his pants, taking hers and drawing it up to brush a kiss over her knuckles. “I didn’t bring anything to—well—”

“’s okay,” he growled, the rough tone sending sparks through her veins. He studied her hand before licking his lips, and she knew what he meant to do.

“No!” she protested, fingers closing into a fist to hide her palm. “That’s so gross, Héctor!”

“Tch, it is _not_.” He rolled his eyes. “You’ve had my spit all over the rest of your body, why not here?”

“I—I don’t know, I just—it’s your tongu— _aah!_ ” A chill ran up her spine when he licked her hand from palm to tip, teeth biting playfully before letting her go. “There,” he winked. “We are roughing it, after all.”

“I ought to smack you,” she grumbled, hiding her red face in his chest while he continued to laugh above her. _Well, I know how to make you stop doing **that** , _she thought, her frown twisting into an evil smirk. Shoving her hand back into his pants, she closed her fist around him; two strokes was all it took to shut him up, his jaw clenching as he bucked into her fist with a gasp.

“More?” she whispered, tongue darting out to taste the sweat beading on his skin. He nodded, swallowing hard, his hips still trying to chase into her hand as she teased him with a lighter, pulsing squeeze. “More of what?” she urged, wanting to hear that dark, sweet voice again. “More of this?” Her thumb pressed circles beneath his head until his leg trembled under her core. “Or of this?” She pumped him until he hissed out a curse, chest rising and falling under her cheek as he panted.

“A-anything you l-like,” he managed to say. His feet pressed harder into the mattress, head falling off the other end and exposing the long, lean column of his throat. “Harde—anything, just _harder_ —” he begged, his hand finding hers and squeezing until her fingers were tight around him.  

“Like this?”

“ _S_ - _s_ _í_!”

“This?”

“Aa—ah _, sí—_ ” 

“ _Mi amor_ ….” She heard her own voice thicken with desire, grinding steadily on his thigh as his nails dug into the meat of her flesh through her shorts. He let out an unrestrained groan, his spine arching off the mattress as he gasped for breath; it had to have been the sexiest thing she’d ever seen, enough that she whimpered in response without a thought.

“Imelda, _por favor_ , _por_ — ** _mierda_** —” His free hand slapped against the mattress, palm striking the blanket with a muted sound before gathering a handful and squeezing it, pressed against his face. “ _Ay_ … it’s too much, it’s—I can’t—” She felt warm beads of precum mixing with the damp, cooling saliva on his head. She chewed her lip until it hurt, her hand starting to ache; still,  there was no way in hell she was stopping _now_.

“¿ _Me amas_?” she moaned, wanting to hear it while he was in this state. His voice was always so lovely when he was on the brink, deep and cracking with emotion. “ _Te amo mucho_ , _mi amor_ , _mi_  Héctor….”

“ _T-te amo_ , _te amo para siempre_ , _mi amada_ , m-m- _mmnn_ —” He faltered, body tensing, and she relaxed her pace the moment she felt the first spurt of heat splash over hand. She gentled him through his climax, stroking softly until his hand covered hers in a silent order to stop. He panted heavily as the last spasms wracked his body, staring up unseeing at the tent’s billowing fabric.

“Héctor…” She felt the mess on her hand, staining his pajama pants, sticky against his palm as he caressed her fingers. He stirred enough to turn onto his side, his leg slipping out from between hers as he gathered her up in his arms. She relaxed against him, warm and dampened with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He waited until she let go before pulling her up the mattress, his mouth finding hers easily. She let him kiss her, soft and lazy with the haze of his afterglow, his lips brushing over hers before moving across her cheek and towards her ear.

“Sleepy,” he muttered, nibbling her earlobe.

“It’s getting late…” Her stomach rumbled, seconding her thoughts. “I want some breakfast soon.”

“Soon,” he agreed, although his actions showed otherwise. He sighed into her hair, smiling when she pushed halfheartedly at him.

“I mean it… I don’t want to wait until lunchtime.”

“Lunch…. gotcha….”  

“Héctor?”

“ _Mmm_.”

“…Héctor!”


	17. Day 20: Your Own Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 20: Your Own Kink  
> Pre-Canon
> 
> Soon is never close enough, but at least it's a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You fools... my kink is soft, sweet fluff and gentle kisses....

“What color is… the sky?”

The sky was so many colors; how could she just pick one? She stared overhead, the shifting canopy of the forest revealing flashes of vermillion and mauve and shale. The leaves were dark against the sunbeams, the sun a flickering orb dipping down behind the sloping mountains somewhere just beyond the horizon. Her eyes found scarlet, a brilliant shimmer against pastel clouds.

“R-red.” Her hand slid into his hair, anchoring in the soft silk. It was long enough to curl over her knuckles, his scalp warm in the cooling dusk. Long fingers slipped over her blouse, tracing the rise of her breast. She shivered, eyelashes fluttering until the world above her head faded to dark-fringed blotches of color.

Mamá would scold her for being late. She ought to have been home by now, rushing though the back door just in time to wash up and help with the nightly meal. The plaza wasn’t a long walk, if she took the main road; she’d have to make up some excuse for the delay. Perhaps Papá was standing at the gate, stroking the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw as he watched for her. She hated to disappoint him, to see the censure in the set of his mouth while Mamá scolded, but….

Warm lips felt their way up her stomach, hands kneading at her hips. The scratchy mulch shifted against his tattered trousers, releasing the loamy fragrance of moldering leaves and untouched  soil. The forest smelled of petrichor, of life; the broad, black river churned and bubbled, dampening the dusty staleness of the arid mountains bordering Santa Cecelia. The cicadas hummed their mating song, foretelling the impending rains.

She relaxed further into the soft earth, feeling the soil mold to her back and embrace her from behind. Birds fluttered overhead, finding their nests and settling down for conversation as the sun vanished, leaving only its last lingering beams behind. A mouth slanted over hers, gently tasting as a weight settled slowly onto her torso, pressing into every curve.

A slow kiss, little more than tasting, something she didn’t even have to open her eyes for. Her fingers spanned the back of his head, barely able to cover any ground even when fully spread. His larger hands cradled her head when he held her to him, but compared to his hands hers were still an infant’s, swallowed entirely by his palms.

Teeth gently tugged at her lower lip, along with a teasing flick of his tongue. Hands, sliding up to settle beneath the twin folds of her bosom, warm through the cotton blouse. His head dipped past her mouth, lips finding her pulse and tasting the sweat of the day on her skin. He bit and sucked, marking her skin, finding a sensitive place behind her ear and smiling when she squirmed.

Her skirts were the only encumbrance preventing him from kneeling between her thighs. A part of her wanted to hitch them up, showing him the white fabric of her bloomers, perhaps even inviting him to touch, but she knew that she mustn’t. It would be hard enough to explain away the earthy stains on her clothes, the streaks of leaf-strewn soil and the smell of the forest that would permeate her to the bone. She was supposed to be in the plaza with her friends. She could tell a falsehood: that they took a walk to the forest, and that she fell down an embankment. But that would not excuse dirt on her freshest pair of undergarments.  

His lips found one bare shoulder, than another, kissing the freckles dusted over her skin. She sighed, utterly content, combing her fingers through his hair and basking in the attention. She wanted… to feel, to be able to possess. When they were here, he seemed to—not _own_ her, per se, but—borrow her, perhaps, from herself. She gave up everything to him, trusting him not to go too far or take too much. And in return he cherished the responsibility of her body, strove to protect it, kissing her like a delicate porcelain doll rather than a young woman, a living being of flesh and blood.

It made her yearn for the same accountability, the same blind trust, but from him. She wanted more than the scant touch of his hands, the delicious, but lacking kisses. She wanted his skin on hers, his warmth leeching into her from every side, hands unbraiding her hair and combing the leaves from it without the worry of being caught, in this place where meeting was already forbidden. She wanted to savor the leisure of freedom. She wanted to kiss him in the plaza, in full view of everyone, and not be chided for it the moment she returned home. She wanted soft bedsheets in lieu of the crackling forest floor. She wanted him to be all hers, even more so than he already was.

She wanted body and soul.

“ _Tus padres_ ….” His lips hovered over her breast, the thin line of cleavage pushed up by her corset. The words tickled her skin, sinking down under her, into her, plucking at the morality ingrained into her from childhood. The sky was less colorful, her eyes picking out deeper shadows in the forest. It was past _late_ , and now bordering on _too late_. She arched against him, full of affection and yet empty, wanting more than the little they allowed themselves.

 _Soon,_ he whispered to her, trailing behind her parents as he walked her home from church. _Soon_ , a word filled with so many promises. _Soon_ , when there was money to be had and spare. _Soon_ , when the pantry was filled, the goat fattened and milk-ready. _Soon_ , when a thin band rested on her finger, proof to the world of how serious a poor musician, the orphaned son of a poorer clergyman, could be when he boasted of someday marrying the stonemason’s daughter.

 Then it would be allowed—for her father would allow the marriage, Mamá would make sure of that, no doubt—and they could walk whenever they wanted, wherever they wanted. The forest would be a pleasurable pastime, not a necessity. They could dance together in their kitchen— _her kitchen—_ and he could kiss her afterwards without being forced apart on pains of death. Never again would her skirts stand in their way.

“ _S_ _í_.” She was answering her own thoughts, but he took it as confirmation, acceptance of his own warning. He knew her parents; he’d been chased out from under her window in the middle of the night, had his hands slapped with her mother’s vengeful spoons whenever they wandered too far, and even endured being picked up by the scruff like a mangy kitten and tossed out of their front gate by Papá. Still, their stern courting rules weren’t enough to chase him away, no matter how often her father insisted that was the last he’d ever tolerate of _that boy_. He came crawling back after every mishap only to be let in the door, sat down in the kitchen, and packed so full of food that her brothers had to drag him into the parlor by his suspenders.  

He cupped her cheeks, wrapping her face in his long fingers before pulling her up for one last kiss. A kiss that went on, and on, and on until her hands were twisted in his shirt, mouths swollen and breaths heavy. A grin, one that twinkled his eyes even in the encroaching darkness, and she knew he wasn’t bitter from the forced separation.

He would come on Sunday, trailing after her like a lovesick puppy until she took his arm. He’d ask her some ridiculous, poetic question like where he should put his shoes, and she’d give some equally ridiculous, poetic answer. He’d humor her brothers with silly stories, let them show off whatever bizarre little contraption they scrounged together instead of helping Papá in the quarry, and politely thank her mother for a third helping of dinner. He’d sit with her on the sofa, separated by twin scruffy heads, and wink at her whenever her parents weren’t looking.

One day, she’d have more. They’d lay together beneath the spreading branches, letting the cicada symphony die down into the soft ballad of crickets, and perhaps even sleep together beneath their favorite tree. He’d undress her in the dark, his hands running over the curves he’d already know by heart, and press the two of them together until they forgot where one body began and the other ended.

But until then, the far-off _soon_ … this was enough.


	18. Day 21: Shower Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 21: Shower Sex  
> 1980s!AU 
> 
> The stall might be tiny, but... no, yeah, the stall is tiny.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Imelda pressed her back against the cracked tile, rolling her eyes as her boyfriend tried to crowd in beside her. “This is literally _the_ most bogus thing you’ve suggested since we hooked up.”

“Aw, come on. It’s not so bad.” Héctor ducked beneath the showerhead, fiddling with the knobs. “Me and Ernesto hid in here once when we were drunk and thought the landlady was an intruder; if I can fit in here with him, I can fit in here with you. Just stand back, though: there’s a little rust that comes out when you first turn it on—”

True to his word, a pathetic stream of water shot from the showerhead, tinged red and adding the faint hint of iron to the musky odor of old sweat, mildew, and aftershave that permeated the bathroom. He kicked at the wall, jimmying the showerhead until the stream turned into a jet that ebbed and flowed without warning.

“ _Blech_!” he sputtered, shaking his long bangs out of his eyes. “There, that should do it. I think. Just as long as no one downstairs tries to use the water.” She rolled her eyes, her mouth drawn enough to show him just how unenthused she was about his ‘big idea’. Of course, it was only marginally better than his earlier notion that they could _totally_ jump that mudbank with the bike… he was 0 for 2 today, and they hadn’t eaten lunch yet.

 “Aw, don’t look at me like that.” He squeezed her cheeks, giving her head a little shake. “C’mon, I’ll do you first. Now, these are mine—” Imelda looked around at the bottles lined on every available surface, some empty, some nearly so, and a few that were clearly more used than others. They were stacked on top of each other, precariously close to falling from the thin shelves built into the shower stall. She wrinkled her nose at the grimy soap scum caked on some of the surfaces, grease and unidentifiable fluids streaked down the side of the tile beneath the shelves.

“What’s this?” she asked, picking up a purple bottle between her thumb and forefinger. _Lavender and vanilla_ , it proclaimed, along with a long list of supposedly-organic materials to make hair strong and shiny.

“Oh, that’s Ernesto’s.” Héctor rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “I don’t know if he’ll be happy with us using his shampoos… even though he _does_ have a lot more….” He trailed off, biting his lip thoughtfully.

“Fine. Which one do you use?” He picked up a red bottle and handed it to her; opening it, she breathed it in with a purr. It was the same scent as his hair, but concentrated to a point that she could almost taste it in the back of her throat. _I’ll smell just like him,_ she mused, the thought strangely arousing. “I’ll use it, too. Now move, and let me get my hair wet.”

“Wait, I’ll do it.” He pulled the showerhead from the wall, and for a quick moment she thought he’d broken it. _Oh, it’s detachable?_ She’d heard of those before, but she’d never been a shower with one. He turned her so that her back was to him, and she pressed her shoulder against the frosted glass door to brace herself as he began soaking her hair. She felt the hairspray melting from it, stiff curls going limp as he began yanking clumps of mud and river grass out of the matted mess it had become thanks to their little ‘dip’.

She closed her eyes as he worked, a small smile tugging at her lips. She always enjoyed it when someone else was washing her hair. Her favorite part of the salon was the wash, lying back in comfort as someone else methodically combed through the tangles and scrubbed shampoo and conditioner into it. The water trickled over her shoulders and down her back; it wasn’t as hot as she liked it at home, but it was warm enough that it felt good against her tensed muscles.

Héctor hummed as he worked, spreading her hair in wet tendrils down her back before letting the showerhead hang, spitting water onto the back of their thighs. She didn’t turn, listening to the pop of the shampoo bottle and then feeling the wet, gloppy mess on her scalp as he poured.

“You’re wasting it,” she murmured, feeling him pour more and more on. “My hair isn’t _that_ much longer than yours.”

“How do you know I don’t use this much on my own hair?” He snuck a quick kiss to her shoulder as he tossed the shampoo bottle back onto the shelf with the rest. The pile quivered, but didn’t fall, and then she had to shut her eyes again as he lathered her. Bubbles cascaded over her nose, bursting in her ears and tickling the back of her neck.

Still, she couldn’t help but sigh happily as his nails scratched her scalp, long fingers kneading the shampoo into her locks. _If he’s this good at shampooing, I bet he gives good massages, too._ She resolved to find out sooner rather than later, knowing that he’d be more than happy to give her a post-wreck massage if she demanded it.

His hands moved steadily down her hair, scrunching it up and lathering until the suds ran down her legs and were washed away by the spray of the showerhead. She shivered, her chest brushing against the tile in front of her when he nudged her forward to reach the tips of her curls. Her nipples tightened, the water on her stomach cooling rapidly in the open air. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to conserve her body heat until he was through.

“¿ _Tienes frío_?”

“Just a little,” she admitted. “I’m fine.” She focused on the warm water pulsing around her knees, falling to her ankles when the pressure ebbed before slowly rising back up the back of her calves.

“Here, I’m almost through.” His hands combed through her hair, separating the last of the tangles and spreading it so that it fell in curly waves to slap wetly against her back. “Imelda… _tu cabello es hermoso_ ,” he murmured.

“Keep growing and maybe yours will be just as good.” She loved his long hair, spilling past his shoulders and tickling her face whenever he bent over her for a kiss. And when he was performing, something about seeing it hanging down his neck, bleeding into his leather jacket or plastered to his forehead with sweat, set her heart thumping. She’d heard him discuss trimming it back for the summer with Ernesto last month; the thought of losing precious inches was absolutely tragic. She wanted to be able to run her fingers through it, tug him down to her level when he towered over her, or yank him down for a kiss when he was inside her, hitting all the right places.

 “As yours? Never.” He grabbed the shower head, her legs already protesting the loss of warmth when the spray left them exposed to the cool air. “Lean your head back.” She obeyed, toes curling with pleasure at the first blast of water against her scalp. He petted her hair as he worked, urging the suds to follow the water down her thick hair; they plopped at her feet, the air perfumed with the smell that she only associated with him.

When he stopped she leaned back further, finding his shoulder and reclining against it. She opened her eyes to see him looking down at her, a goofy grin stretched over her features. He bent down and kissed her forehead, earning a small hum. Her hair was heavy, soaked and dripping but _clean_ , which was all she wanted.

“Now….” His voice lowered, vibrating against her spine. “For the rest of you.”

“I think I can wash myself,” she pointed out, blinking up at him lazily. His smile vanished, twisting into a pout faster than she could blink.

“What’s the point of having my smokin’ girlfriend in the shower with me if I’m not even allowed to wash her? Aw, ‘Melda!” he protested, when she rolled her eyes. “Come on! I’ll let you return the favor,” he added, trying to sound persuading and ending up giving off the air of a low-commissioned car salesman. His brows wiggled in a ‘sultry’ expression that supposedly left scores of women (but, conveniently, none that she knew) swooning at his feet.

She shook her head, resisting the urge to tear him a new by reminding him just why they were in the shower in the first place. It didn’t help when he attempted to be sexy; he was most alluring when he _wasn’t_ trying at all, his expressions genuine and words unpracticed. He could startle her with boyish innocence, or have her shaking with pleasure just from the unrestrained growl in his voice. None of that rawness appeared when he was performing, either for her or the stage. It was genuine Héctor, and _he_ had to be genuine for it to show.

“Didn’t you just say you were cold?” A wall of heat was suddenly at her back, hair brushed to the side. Even as she stiffened, the warmth from his body soaked into her along with the water at her legs, leaving only her front cold and abandoned. “I’m pretty good at warming you up, right?” he whispered, his lips tickling the outer shell of her ear. “Anyway,” he added, putting a voice to her earlier thoughts, “this is my fault, isn’t it? Let me take care of you, _mi corazón_.”

“Tch. Fine.” It wasn’t giving in, not if she was getting a decent bath out of it… right? She turned her head, staring at the foggy outline of the toilet through the frosted glass, his shoulder in her peripherals. “But you better do it right.”

“I’d never do my girl wrong,” he cooed, one hand sliding over her wet hair. She shivered again—this time it had little to do with the cold—and forced her arms to hang at her sides as he grabbed the soap from its tinier shelf. She cringed at the sight of all the scum caking the sides of the dish, but when he began to lather it she found herself relaxing at the familiar scent.

“What is that called?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutrally curious. It was hard, when suddenly all she wanted to do was turn around and bury her face in his neck, finding traces of that same citrusy, forest-y fragrance on his dampened skin. “That smell?”

“Oh! Uh… summer dew or something, I don’t know.” He laughed sheepishly, running the bar beneath the spray and trying to pick off a stray hair. “It’s the cheapest thing on the soap aisle?” Was _that_ why he chose it?! She closed her eyes, breathing in the humid, sweetening air and wishing that she’d never asked. He was so damn _predictable,_ even when he was anything but.

He moved her hair until it fell down her back, exposing her shoulders. Warm hands slipped up and down her biceps, rubbing gently before sliding up to fake-massage the balls of her shoulders. She leaned against him, willing to stroke his pride if it meant she wasn’t pressed against the cold tile. He lathered from her wrists and back, fingers dipping into her armpits; she squirmed, ticklish, and felt a laugh rumble somewhere behind his ribs.

“Don’t press your luck,” she muttered, only to let out a soft exhale when he embraced her from behind. His chest was warm even through the thick curtain of her hair, his hands spanning her stomach. She rested against him, biting her lip when he tickled her stomach while soaping her up. He took his time, feeling the broad expanse of her hips before sliding up her ribs, never getting close enough to her chest for her liking. “You missed a few spots,” she whined, knowing that she was pouting and hating it.   

“I’m not done,” he replied smoothly, tracing a circle around her bellybutton and laughing when she jumped. He moved to her thighs, feeling along the seams of her body before settling on giving her hips a light squeeze. She muffled the sound that threatened to bubble out of her throat, half complaint and half moan, leveling the odds by grinding against him whenever his hardening cock was flush to her rear. His breathing hitched with every slow roll of her hips, hands tightening on her waist until she gasped.

“Distracting me isn’t going to help get you clean,” he murmured, kissing her cheekbone before nipping at her earlobe. He held her still as he moved against her, a few short thrusts that were more to lessen the tension in his body than anything else. She huffed, grabbing his hands and trying to shove them back up her stomach to where her chest waited, unwashed and neglected. 

“What’s the point of washing me if you aren’t going to cop a feel?” His hands tightened into iron bands, unmovable no matter how hard her nails dug into the little trenches between his fingers and her skin. She stomped her foot, a frustrated growl in the back of her throat. “Héctor!”

“Getting impatient?” he teased, thumbs rubbing little soapy circles into the dimples on her hips. She scowled, twisting around to give him a good glare… only to grow distracted by his face. He’d shoved the bangs out of his eyes, his entire forehead on display for once and eyes glittering with impish desire. The hair she loved so much was stuck to his neck, humidity curling the strands near his ears and goatee gleaming with unshed beads of water.

“Héctor,” she scolded again, although a new tremble in her voice gave her away. Her knees went weak, pressing her weight into him and sliding even more as her hair shifted to reveal her bare back. He caught her, his hands covering hers and brows arching; without his bangs she could see the way they slid up his forehead, wrinkling the smooth skin.

“Okay, okay…” His hands moved hers, gathering up lather in her palms before sliding up to curve her fingers around her breasts. She whimpered softly, more annoyed than anything else. She didn’t want to feel herself—even if she had insisted on washing on her own earlier—she wanted his calloused fingers on every inch of her chest.

She turned, shaking his hands off and pulling his face down. There was no time wasted, her tongue slipping between his lips when he opened them, swallowing his query and pressing her chest against his. The whorls of wet hair rubbed over her nipples, his hands finding her rear and squeezing before rubbing the leftover soap on his hands across her cheeks. She moaned into his mouth, shamelessly grinding her hips against his as she pushed him against the opposite wall of the stall.

“Okay,” he whispered again, brushing wet strands of hair from her face before kissing her with enough force to bend her backwards. His hand slipped between her thighs, soapy fingers sliding against the natural wetness her body created. She wanted to climb him, to wrap her legs around his hips and pull him into her that way, but she didn’t trust his footing enough to try it. She made do with thrusting against his fingers, shuddering when his thumb rolled over her clit.

“ _Más_ ,” she hissed, needing more than the light, mocking brush of his fingers. She needed pressure, friction, something that would leave her lightheaded and pliant in his arms. “ _Más_ , _mi_ _amor_ ,” she repeated, this time a plea that fluttered against his open mouth.

He shivered at the pet name, still new in their budding relationship; she knew he was over the moon for her, but he never forced her into doing—or saying—anything she didn’t want to. No matter how many sweet little names he called her, nothing was ever said about her returning the favor. He accepted whatever she was comfortable giving him, whenever she wanted to give it. She wondered if he hoarded each phrase like a little treasure in the back of his mind, able to name off the day and moment she first uttered it.

“ _S_ _í_ , _lo que quieras_ —” He spun her in his arms, one hand molding her breast while the other slipped back between her thighs. “Lean on me, Imeldita; _está bien_ , _no te dejaré caer_ ….” He usually talked much dirtier than this, but now there was a soft, sweeter note to his voice that wouldn’t have meshed well at all with the things he liked to say to her in bed. She rocked into his hand, silently begging him to move, her hand reaching back to feel over the bony ridge of his hip.

His fingers parted her folds, thumb circling her clit before retreating and leaving her moaning under her breath. His other hand left her breast, but before she could complain his mouth was at her ear.

“ _Hermosita_ , _está bien,_ ” he repeated, tongue flicking over her pulse. “ _Te tengo_.” His body tightened expectantly around her, arm pressing into her stomach and hand steadying on her sex. “Imelda,” he breathed, running his lips over her wet skin, and then without warning he moved the showerhead between her thighs.

The first blast of water, aided by a well-timed surge in water pressure, had her nails digging into his hip. She couldn’t even draw breath to shout, her eyes widening at the insistent, almost rough pressure. His fingers drew her folds even farther apart, leaving nothing to shield her from the unending warmth. She gaped, sliding as her legs shook beneath her; he lifted a knee, bracing his back against the wall and holding her still.

“Hé—Ha- _ahh_ —” Two of his fingers slid into her easily, pressing deep within her until she had to bite down on her knuckles to keep from screaming. Her eyes screwed shut, mind blanking; she could only think about the pressure against her clit, the fingers curling inside of her, his lips against her shoulder, mumbling something she couldn’t hear until the fierce pulse thrumming in her ears. She tasted iron, hot on her tongue, her finger aching as her teeth pierced skin.

She’d never fully lost herself during sex before, some part of her mind always in charge of her body and aware of what she was doing and just how she was doing it. This was entirely new, something she’d never experienced before. Her mind was a mess, things coming through in fragments: her spread toes, heels skidding on the slippery tiles, soap running from her breasts, Héctor’s teeth, biting a mark on the softest part of her neck. She vaguely realized that sounds were coming from her, high-pitched and rough, released with every ragged exhale.

It was frightening, in a way; his body surrounded her, holding her still and dragging these sounds from her. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming, and yet she couldn’t stop it from happening. A part of her hazily thought that she could just ask for him to let up, but she didn’t seem to have control over her own body, much less her thoughts, to be able to form a coherent sentence. _Besides,_ another, calmer part of her thought—she had no idea how it could be _calm_ , not when her world was on the verge of shattering—

 _It’s H_ _é_ _ctor_.

Héctor. There was no one else in the world she’d let hold her like this. All of her other boyfriends… even if they’d been allowed in the shower with her, even if they’d _wanted_ to take a shower with her…. They wouldn’t have had the privilege of seeing her this way. She was in charge of their bodies, not the other way around. Then again, she hadn’t trusted them to treat her the way Héctor did. She would let him do this to her, because he wouldn’t let her fall. The entire universe might shake on its foundations, but through it all he would be there to keep her upright, and safe, and—

 _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit oh shit oh shit—_ She bent over as much as his arm would let her, clinging to him as her legs completely gave way. He crooned something right into her ear; it might have been her name, or some reassurance, but she was too far gone for the words to even make sense anymore. _I love him, I really **love** him, **shit** —_

Her orgasm ripped through her mid-cry and she choked, clawing at his arm as his fingers continued to rub her inner walls. Her vision seared, wet hair falling into her face and stars dancing behind her eyes, vaguely aware that she was calling his name loud enough for the entire complex to hear.

“S-stop, no more—”

Her lungs were on fire, throat burning from cry tearing its way out of her, everything from her chest down a shaking mess. His fingers gently rubbed over her as they slid out, easing her down as he began washing the rest of the soap from her body. She closed her eyes, gulping and wiping at the saliva on her chin as he worked; it was odd, feeling sated and willing to let him do whatever he wanted, moving her limbs like a doll as he methodically cleaned every inch of her.

“Warm enough?” For a moment her hazy mind thought that he meant the water, which was indeed starting to grow cool. Then, as the logical side of her brain took over, she remembered his earlier words. She was too tired to even roll her eyes, much less be annoyed by his smug attitude. As a matter of fact….

 _I love this guy?_ A lump formed at the base of her throat, choking off her breath. He didn’t seem to notice, and she took advantage of his lapse in attention. She knew she loved him, she _said_ she loved him, and he returned all her affection eagerly. But… there was a difference between love and _love_ , the kind that made people think of hitching up for life. And… damnit, she was sitting right in dangerous territory.

Why wasn’t she more worried? True, the realization had opened something fresh and raw deep within her, but she wasn’t frightened or concerned. It just… was. Turning her face to him, she caught his eye and saw the unrestrained lust written onto his face. He was still hard against her, ignoring his own needs to take care of her. _What an idiot._ She felt something swell, filling every inch of her with warmth.

“ _Sí_ … _te amo_.” His brows jumped, lips parting before a smile lit his face.

“ _Te amo mucho_.” He kissed her temple. “ _Mucho, mucho, mucho, mucho_ —”

“ _Cállate_ ,” she moaned, turning in his arms and pulling him down to her. Her legs shook, but she was able to hold her own weight as she kissed him. He let the showerhead drop, chilly water splashing around their legs as he wrapped his arms around her. “Mm, I better take care of you before we run up your bill,” she murmured, feeling his erection against her stomach.

“The water’s getting cold, _mi amor_.” He smiled placatingly at her, tucking loose curls behind her ear. “And I tired you out, just now. I can wait until later,” he assured her, bending for another kiss. She allowed it, love pumping through her veins until she was heady with it, drunken and not caring about the cold.

She wanted to give him the same earth-shattering pleasure, and then wrap him up in one of the threadbare towels hanging from the cabinet, and curl up on his bed naked for the rest of the night, huddled together beneath the blankets and talking about anything and everything.

“Don’t worry,” she smiled, looking around for the bar of soap. “I’ll be sure to keep you nice and warm.”  


	19. Day 22 & 23: On the Desk, Trying New Position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 22 & 23: On the Desk, Trying New Position  
> Post Canon
> 
> The fans might want Héctor, but he's already taken.

Héctor remembered a lot of things about his wife.

100 years wasn’t nearly enough time to forget the love of his life, all the little quirks and traits that made him fall in love with her even when they were a little annoying. He remembered how she liked coffee with her eggs at breakfast, how she placed her shoes by the bedroom door each night before lying down, how she tapped the spoon against her lips—or what served as her lips now—when gauging how much spice to add to the soup pot.

However, there were also things that he’d forgotten. Most of them were things he hadn’t liked, little traits that exasperated him to no end when they were alive; she was his _diosa_ , of course, but even goddesses have _teensy_ little shortcomings. He hadn’t remembered how she ground her back teeth together when concentrating on something, or how she had that weird habit of needing plates stacked _just so_ in the cabinets.

He’d also apparently forgotten her possessive streak.

“It’s not the end of the world.” He’d gotten his first taste of overenthusiastic fans, ending up with ripped trousers and quite the getaway tale. He could find the humor in it—he had to, otherwise the thought of their screaming, grabbing figures creeped him out—but he hadn’t expected Imelda to react so… passionately. “They’re such old pants… if you can’t mend them, I won’t mind they’re being thrown away,” he assured her. “ _Cálmese_ , _mi amor_.”

“¡ _No me calmaré_!” If she’d still had blood, it would have been boiling by now. He knew that look, he remembered it well—he was partly grateful that he wasn’t the one on the receiving end. “You were… harassed!”

“That’s a strong way of—”

“Attacked!”

“I—well—they looked _young_ , they were just kids—”

“Those… those… _putas_!” She threw the pinstriped fabric on the ground, chest heaving. He gasped, appalled at the rough language; he could recall a time such a word would have never left her lips, not even in his presence.

“Imelda!”

“They’re not too young to honor marriage vows!” she fumed. “Everyone knows that you’ve got a wife. You’re _my_ husband; no one has a right to your body outside of this room.” He looked around at her ‘spare office’—really a glorified broom closet with a desk and two filing cabinets. She’d ushered him in there when he told her his trousers were torn, making him take them off so she could assess the damage in the good lamplight, with her glasses.

“You’re right,” he agreed, nodding emphatically. “You’re absolutely right. But…”

“ _But_?”

“But they really _were_ just kids,” he simpered, hands crossing over his bared pelvis. Even if he didn’t have the equipment, the old instinct to protect himself was still there. He was fairly sure that a swift boot right to his pelvis wouldn’t feel fun in the slightest, anyway.

“I don’t care if they were kids, or mothers, or grandmothers!” She scowled at him, kicking the pants out of the way and stomping to where he sat meekly on the edge of the desk. “They wanted something they couldn’t have. They wanted what’s _mine_.”  She stood between his legs, arms crossed and glaring up at him with fiery zest. He felt a tremor deep in his marrow—though there was no way of knowing if it was fear, or something else. “You and I promised our bodies to each other when we stood in that church all those years ago.”

“Of course, _mi corazón_. Nothing’s changed.”

“Oh? Then I suppose I can let a group of young men paw at me. After all,” she added sarcastically, “they’re just _kids_.”

“Wait a second!” he sputtered, eyes going wide. “I didn’t let them do it! That’s how I tore my pants; I was trying to get away! And any man’s going to grope you over my dead body!”

“You _are_ dead.”

“You know what I mean,” he snapped, feeling an unwelcome rush of jealousy. He could see where she was coming from, of course, but the thought of any man touching _his_ — It made him want to gouge his fingers into something and rip it to shreds. His hands balled into fists against the notion, swallowing hard to push the dark feelings somewhere else. He didn’t like those kinds of thoughts, at least when they came from his own head. It reminded him too much of the overly possessive men he saw growing up, the ones that would kill a man over an idle comment. He didn’t want to be that kind of husband.

 “But…” he paused, gathering his thoughts. “But if you don’t want me to do it anymore, I understand.”

“Do what? Run?” Her browbone arched, mouth pursed.

“No, I mean… play. In the plaza.” He swallowed, hands balling on his bare knees. “If it makes you uncomfortable for me to play there still, knowing that this might happen, well—I’ll stop. Today will have been my last performance.” For a long moment she stared at him, shrewd and calculating. He fidgeted on the desk, the ancient wood uncomfortable against his backside. Papers crinkled beneath his hips, old designs and bills from suppliers.

“That would be punishment,” she said slowly, her eyes flickering over his form. “For you. Why should you be punished for someone else’s sin?” He blinked at her, the words rattling in his head without making much sense. He was used to taking the blame, and besides: if she was unhappy, and it only happened when he played, then the obvious thing was to stop playing… right?

“I—I mean—” She stepped even closer, mascara-caked eyelashes sliding lower. He stopped, gulping, and tried to resist the urge to press himself against the back of the desk. 

“If those _putas_ want to rip off your clothes….” Her voice caught between a hiss and a purr, and the shiver he felt now was _definitely_ not fear.

“Imelda?” She faltered, something like censure in her gaze, and then squared her shoulders with a determined huff.

“… I’ll give them something to look at.”

“Huh? Wh—” Her hands yanked his loose suspenders, tugging him down for an almost violent kiss. His query was lost on a startled moan, hands flailing and finding the edge of the desk before he toppled over on top of her. Her eyes were screwed shut, mouth brushing roughly over his before she grabbed his cheeks, kissing a sharp, hard line up to the designs on his cheekbones.

“There.” Pulling back, she gave him an appraising once over. He stared down blankly, still reeling from the impromptu kiss. Even after months of living in the same house, sharing the same bed, a part of him was still astounded every time she lavished such affection on him. Of course she was allowed—she was his wife, his life, his _everything_ —but just like the first time she leapt into his arms after her performance onstage, he was shocked and amazed and so, so in love that he could hardly stand it.

“Uhm….” He went to lick his lips, only to remember that he didn’t have a tongue. He settled for wiping his mouth with the side of his palm; it came back streaked with a faint purple, the remnants of her lipstick. Glancing up, he noticed the same color smudged in the corner of her mouth, smeared along her lower lip from the force of her kiss.

A thrill ran through him—innovative, his _esposita intelligente_! He had no flesh to bite, no blood to raise, and yet she marked him the only way she still could. The thought that he belonged, that someone wanted him enough to have them all to herself, no sharing, thrummed inside his ribcage like a phantom heartbeat. It fluttered in his throat, choking, and emerged in a rough gasp when she bent down, her lips firmly against the top of his sternum.

“Imelda!?” She pulled away, a smug smile twitching at her lips as they both studied the near-perfect mark she left. He gulped again, the place where her mouth was tingling in little prickling waves. She tilted her head, ever the perfectionist, and ran her thumb along the slightly marred left edge.

“I think I can do better,” she mused, eyes darting to take in his expression. He gazed back, not sure what was happening but more than willing to see it through if it meant more of those firm, sweet kisses. Her grin widened into a smirk, full of mischief, and then she lightly pushed him backwards. His spine met the tiny shelves of the secretary desk, the opened cover digging into the base of his skull. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but he found that he didn’t really care once her fingertips curved into the gaps between his ribs.

She followed, one knee rising to rest on the lip of the desk and her palms pressing on either side of his sternum to hold him steady. The loose suspenders fell behind his arms, legs dangling from the knee down. He’d never been on _this_ side of the desk before—as a living man he’d been the one to press her against whatever solid surface had been nearby, be it kitchen table or counter or the flat top of the chest-of-drawers or the rickety, quivering woodpile….

It was an altogether different sensation to be the one held down like he wasn’t the taller, stronger one, his tiny little wife crawling her way up him to kiss his breastbone with growing fervor. His broken rib rattled, looser against the others as he shifted beneath her. Already he was starting to pant, ribs expanding beneath her hands; she took advantage of the extra space, fingers sliding between his bones easily and lightly tracing the inner corners of his ribcage.

“Don’t move so much,” she scolded softly, looking at him thorough her lashes. “You’ll mess up my work.” He was torn, part of him wanting to disobey and make her work harder, while the other wanted to follow her every command. He compromised, trying to calm his breathing while his hands snuck towards her hips. She grabbed the right one as it brushed her side, holding it up by the wrist before eyeing him imperiously. He grinned, sheepish, and she rolled her eyes before pressing a perfect bowed marked to his palm.

“That’ll stop them?” he couldn’t help but murmur, his fingers curling to brush her lips. “What it they think it’s just a fashion statement?”

“Everyone will go around wearing lipstick on their bones just because Señor Rivera did it?” she retorted, joining in his lighthearted teasing. She ran her lips over his ribs, flecks of lipstick smearing on the edges before pressing another, more chaste kiss over the empty place where his heart would have been. He felt the ticklish sensation, the firm sweep of her lips, the matte stain of the lipstick. It was rubbing off her mouth now, spotting in places, but in his eyes it only made her look more divine.

“You know how the celebrity craze is….” He twisted his wrist, grabbing her hand instead and bringing to his mouth. He had no lipstick, but a part of him purred with pride at the thought of somehow secretly marking her in return. Even if there was no visible mark, would she feel the touch of his lips the rest of the day? Would she brush her hand on something—her dress, perhaps, or a dishcloth—and remember his face, the stuffy heat of the unaired room, the creak of the desk beneath their bones?

“Are you a celebrity now?” She reached past his hand, drawing him towards her and stopping just before their mouths met in another kiss. “Am I married to a star?” she murmured, lips brushing his. He pulled her forward, one leg wrapping over her waist to hold her to him as he kissed her heavily. She moaned, soft and low, her hands tangling in his hair.

“No,” he chuckled, habitually giving her a moment to breathe. She panted against his face, trying to pull him back even as he held her at bay. He ran a thumb over her cheek, following the waving pattern of the fern motif. “I’m just a musician.”

“A musician that plays for the world...” She pressed her forehead to his, looking into his eyes. He watched the soft purple glow dance behind the brown, their glass sheen too easy to ignore. They were still her eyes, fake or not. “The world of the dead.”

“No.” He cupped her cheeks, kissing her once and retreating before she could coerce more out of him. “I play for _you_. The world just listens in.” Her eyes widened, then crinkled in a way he knew by heart; she was touched by his words, even if she’d never say it outright. True to her nature, she pulled his hands from her face and shoved them playfully back to his chest.

“You always were nothing more than a sappy _músico_.”

“Ah, but you learned to love me.” He winked, feeling a blush spread over his cheeks when she tilted her head coyly.

“I did,” she agreed, sliding down his body. At first he thought she was slipping from the desk, and sat up to try to catch her. Her skirt billowed at the lip of the desk, caught by her pelvis, and when she kicked up one heel he saw a quick flash of her bloomers. Startled, he fell back and watched her recline against the desk, leaning idly as though waiting for something. She watched him with a hand on her chin, waiting until he settled; her hips swung slowly, catching his eye as her boot bobbed in the air.

He jumped when her hands fell on his hips, rubbing gentle, relaxing circles on the crests. His mouth fell open at her expression, a dangerous purpose in the curve of her smile. If she’d still had a tongue, she might have licked her lips at such a moment. Instead, all she did was press his hips into the desk before leaning over, resting her weight on her elbows. He whimpered in anticipation, knowing what she meant to do and wanting it a little too much.

Her breath was warm, little flutterings erupting across the bone and forcing him to bite his lip. She kissed the right side once, right on the rise of the sweeping arch; the quick pressure was more teasing than pleasurable, leaving him instantly wanting more. Smiling, she nuzzled her cheek over the bone, humming under her breath. Her eyes turned to him, almost innocent with her sweet lust, and he felt himself melting further against the desk’s rigid drawers.

Then another kiss, and another, each one only a fraction longer and leaving the faintest of purple imprints. The need to press up into her mouth was overwhelming, held at bay only by his willpower. Her hands had left the rise of his hips, tracing unbearably ticklish patterns between the marks she made. She knew where he was the most sensitive, barely touching the center and focusing her teasing little kisses on the inner bowl made by the gently sloping bones.  

He smothered the sounds threatening to bubble out of him, teeth clenched as he watched her work. It was somehow incredibly arousing to see her working him this way, her hands smoothing over his narrow bones and mouth leaving purple streaks in a series of open-mouthed kisses that left him lightheaded. Her eyes met his every so often and he felt the subtle rock of the desk, the bracing of her boots against the wooden floor and the soft sighs she let slip out between her kisses: all signs that she derived at least _some_ pleasure from the act.

Her hands slid to his ischium and dipped beneath his legs, tracing the openings until he let out a low whine, which rose to a cry when she pressed lightly on the interior side of his pelvis. The pleasure was somehow the same as it had been as a living man, centered in his lower stomach and tensed with muscles he no longer had. She pushed harder, fingertips stroking, and he lurched with a choked hiss.

His hands slid to her head, petting over her bun before tugging on a strand that had separated from the rest. She made a sound, the vibration traveling through her lips and somehow shaking his entire body. His toes curled against the desk, trying not to press her skull too hard while still wanting—wanting _something,_ and unsure how to get it when he no longer had flesh.

“ _Mi amor_ …” she crooned, raising her head just enough to look at him. Her thumbs found his pubic arch, pressing down and smiling when he bucked against her with a cry. “Shh….” Her eyes twinkled, teeth chewing her lip as she began a steady rhythm of pressure and stroking and pushing that left him a trembling mess. He sagged against the desk, his hands digging strands out of her hairstyle as he pulled her back up and nearly yanked her skull from her body.

“Imelda—” She crawled back onto the desk, letting him kiss her as her fingers relentlessly pushed where he needed them most. She could have been touching everywhere at once, the way the sensations rolled up his spine and rattled every bone he had. She smiled against his mouth, breathing in his broken moans and combing through his hair with her free hand.

“Are you getting close, _mi amor_?” she whispered, kissing his cheekbone. He nodded frantically, not trusting his voice. His hand found hers of its own violation, squeezing her fingers before pressing them at a better angle for him to thrust up against. He let his head fall back, suddenly too heavy for his neck to support; it hit the cover of the desk with a solid _thunk_ , jarring it against the wall.  

“Remember…” Her hand tightened in his hair, fisting the strands without tugging too hard; a ploy to get his attention, not cause pain. As if she didn’t already have his undivided attention, even as the corners of his mind started to haze, phantom spasms twitching in his abdomen, the precursor to what he knew would be something _so good_ —

“I’m the _only_ one who sees you this way.”

Her thumb dug into the bone right as he tensed, his entire body strung tighter than a marionette’s strings as he arched with a loud, tapering groan. He faintly hoped that no one was walking down the hallway, or had decided to come in from the garden entrance instead of the front. His head fell forward, chin on his chest as his hips jumped with the aftershocks of the hot, heavy wave that ran through him from head to toe. Her hand flattened under his, cupping his arch and soothing him down from the haze of overpowering pleasure that sent fireworks dancing behind his eyelids.

“’Melda… ah….” He drew in heavy breaths of dusty air, resting his chin on her head when she leaned against his shoulder affectionately. He glanced down, seeing his body painted in purple smears and half-formed lip-prints, a homemade brand of ownership. She collapsed against him as though she were the spent one, cuddling into the crook of his neck with a catlike trill and pressing more kisses to the underside of his jaw. He let her, heady from the afterglow and drowsy in the warmth of the room.

“Keep playing,” she crooned in the silence that followed. He turned wearily to her, listening without really comprehending. After he collected his wits he’d run it through his mind once more, and decide _then_ what she meant _._ Right now, all he wanted was his pants and a nap… maybe not in that order, since the desk felt more and more comfortable the longer he sat there. “But while you’re out there, just remember who you really belong to.”

“I know,” he mumbled sleepily, pulling her further into his side and breathing in the faint shampoo/leather/kitchen scent from the top of her head. “And if those weird reporters try to say anything… we’ve got the license to prove it.”


	20. Day 24: Shy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 24: Shy  
> Biker!AU
> 
> Imelda is the it-girl: class president, student council, debate club– you name it, she’s got her name on the list. But she’s more than willing to admit she needs help when it comes to… other things. After all: it’s for science.

“Just forget I said anything!”

Imelda had never been more embarrassed in all her life: not when she’d burped in the middle of an oral report, not when she’d tripped and fallen in front of everyone last _Jueves Santo_ , not even when her twin brothers had dunked a bucket of icy water on her first-ever date’s head. Those had been _laughable_ moments compared to the utter mortification burning through her veins right now. “I’m sorry I even brought it up.”

“Sorry,” Héctor murmured, the blush still raging on his cheeks. He curled into himself, rubbing his arm absently as he hunched over his crossed legs. She resisted the urge to snap at him, jaw clenching; he was always apologizing for the stupidest things, even if it wasn’t his fault! When was he going to man up? _He’s so sensitive! No wonder all the guys in our class bully him!_ He was lucky that Ernesto was his best friend; otherwise, he’d be picking himself out of the dumpster every single day after school was over.

“I said forget it!” she scowled, twisting so that she didn’t have to look directly at him. It was nearly impossible; the natural clearing they sat in was only a few feet wide, and turning around completely meant she either had to climb in his lap, or risk getting a bird’s nest worth of leaves and twigs in her ponytail. _This stupid secret hideout is too small! Or…_ she admitted to herself with a twinge of sadness, _we’re getting too big._

When they were little kids, playing together after school, their hideout had seemed huge. The branches had towered above their heads like vaulted ceilings in the cathedral. The thick, thorny bushes hid them from the world; blossoms in spring and berries in summer became their play-money, ‘house’ decorations, pretend food, and overpriced wares—depending on the game, of course. The whispering waters of the tiny nearby brook had been their music, and crossing it to reach the clearing always felt like a big, secret adventure.

Even when they were in _secundaria_ , it had seemed large enough for the two of them. She’d pinned Héctor down and made him swear on his own spit to never, _ever_ tell Ernesto about their hiding place; there definitely wasn’t enough room for three, and the thought of him bringing his stupid friend into _their_ space made her blood boil.

It was _not_ jealousy… she just hadn’t wanted Ernesto’s fat head sullying up her forest clearing.

But now it was cramped. Unless the two of them sat cross-legged, there were too many limbs and not enough free space. Héctor’s head brushed the tops of the lowest branches, even if he bent over, and her hair was always getting caught in the bushes they’d loved so much as children. He towered over her now, his long limbs cramping if he didn’t get a chance to stretch them, even at the cost of her personal space.  

Still, neither of them ever said no when the other suggested going to their secret forest spot. Maybe it was partly nostalgia, but… it felt safe here, secluded, somehow apart from the rest of the world. They didn’t have to worry about being seen or overheard. They didn’t have to listen to jealous boyfriends not wanting her to talk to her guy friends. They _certainly_ didn’t have to listen to the ‘tough guys’ laughing at Héctor for hanging out with girls.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured, sneaking glances at her through his bangs. She scowled, rolling her shoulders in what she meant to be a loose, nonchalant shrug. It only made her feel marginally better that his face was as red as hers felt, the blush burning everything from the tips of his ears down to the sparse clusters of downy facial hair he tried to call a goatee. “It’s just—you took me by surprise. I didn’t think something like that would… would be… um….”  

“Coming from me?” she finished for him, the words bitter on her tongue. Who did he think he was, grouping her with the other uptight virgins that shied away from the mere mention of a man’s genitals? Just because she was class president _and_ head of the student council didn’t mean she was a _princesita_. Everyone in school—no, everyone in _Santa Cecelia_ thought she was Little Miss Purity, just because she didn’t spread her legs for every two-bit wannabe jock that had the balls to call her beautiful!

_I have needs too, damnit! I just have more self-control than those other putas!_

Of course, her lack of experience was the whole reason she was in this mess now, wasn’t it? _Damn Chela, with your damn older boyfriend and your damn parents working damn midnight shifts! Why couldn’t you just keep your big mouth shut for once?_ This was all her fault, just because she was being a braggart. _Ooh, my boyfriend says I give the best hand jobs ever! Ooh, he says I’m a natural!_

Who cared if stupid old Marcela was good with her hands?! Moreover, _why_ could she not just forget about the whole conversation?

It definitely hadn’t been the first time she’d faked her way through a discussion about sex; she’d spent many a lunch hour laughing along with her friends in the courtyard, pretending she’d seen it all. In reality she’d only had two boyfriends, and she’d never gone beyond handholding with either of them. But she couldn’t let anyone else know that; she’d be the laughingstock of her peers!

  _Things had just been so much easier when I was a kid!_ When she was thirteen, Mamá had told her all about how a girl becomes a woman: the bodily changes, the shifting moods… and the way babies were created. At least when the others complained about periods and mood swings she’d been able to nod sympathetically, even if she wouldn’t feel the first cramps stirring in her abdomen for months.

“It’s not that!” he sputtered, startling her out of her thoughts. He rubbed his hands against his slacks, palms scrubbing at the khaki fabric. There were frayed bandages on nearly every finger, covering the blisters he got from hours of guitar practice. She’d grown used to the sight of them, and the faint, but constant smell of neomycin that seemed to hang around him since he started earning his callouses. “I—uh—that is—it’s just—”

She watched his hands, unable to meet his eyes as he stammered. He was always searching for words these days, leaving her hanging more often than not as he fumbled to say what he meant. _Why is that? What’s changed?_

He’d had no qualms filling her ears with nonsense when they were kids, yammering on about anything and everything. It was always wild stories from his imagination, invented on the fly and often having nothing to do with whatever was going on at the time. Some made-up adventure with Ernesto, or something crazy about his latest foster family, or this one time where he dreamed the sea was the sky and the sky was the sea and they all had to take a submarines instead of airplanes and—

Even as a kid, a part of her had known he needed those fake stories, and needed her to tell them to. It was the same part of her that knew he didn’t want to leave the forest when it was dark, and that the bruises on his arms weren’t all from playing _fútbol_ with the boys at recess.

That softer part of her had brought tears the first time he came to say goodbye, telling her that he had to go live with another family somewhere up north. It put a lump in her throat every time he came back, a little taller and a little sadder, joking about his social worker the way other kids joked about their parents.

But, as much as some of his weirder stories kind of bored her… she wished he’d still talk about them. She wanted to hear about his crazy ideas for songs, or some fantasy rattling around in his airheaded mind, but instead— nothing. He let her do the talking for them both, occasionally interjecting with a soft laugh, but usually just staring at her.

It was weird—or, rather, it left a weird feeling in her stomach. Almost like he was trying to tell her something with his eyes, and she just wasn’t getting it. It reminded her of when she and her brothers played hangman, trying to guess the answer before they ran out of tries. This time, however, she was trying to guess an answer without any hints… or letters. His silence was startling at times, more than his stories had ever been, no matter how odd.

“…me.” She blinked, realizing that she’d spaced out again while waiting for him to come up with an answer. _Dios, Imelda! Get it together, girl!_ She pressed the heel of her palms to her eyelids, a thick mass of emotion churning in her gut like a boiling soup. Leftover humiliation from his awkward, flailing reaction, frustration at herself for being such a stupid little virgin, exasperation at… _something,_ she didn’t even know what. But it was there, even if she didn’t understand it at all; it just made her all the readier for this minute, this moment, this _day_ to be over.

“What?” she snapped, massaging her lids until she felt the mascara clump together on her eyelashes. _Shit._ She wiped her hands on the ground, hoping that she didn’t have raccoon eyes for the walk home. There was always a pocket mirror in her satchel; she could check, but that would require reaching for it. Imelda didn’t want to move unless it was to get out of here, and go collapse face down on her bed.

Héctor stared at the patch of dark earth between his thighs, hands hanging limply from his knees. His bangs fell over his face, hiding everything but his mouth, which twisted in and out of a grimace as he thought. It was painful to watch; Imelda grew more and more sick to her stomach as the silence expanded to fill the clearing. This was new and awkward, churning with something that echoed the nauseating mess in her gut; again she yearned for the old days, when they could sit side by side for hours without saying a word.

 _Damnit, H_ _é_ _ctor, what changed_?! _Or… when?_

_Why did I not realize that we were drifting this far apart?_

“Why?” She blinked, startled, and bristled. He wasn’t supposed to just _ignore_ her question like that! She glared at him, only to find something close to determination glinting back at her. It made her uneasy, the hesitant thought that he might not let this slide while they were alone. He used to be stubborn; if he still had that tenacity, she’d have a hard time changing the subject without a proper answer.

“Really, Héctor. Just forget it.” Averting her eyes, she brushed the ponytail from where it stuck to the back of her white school blouse. “It doesn’t matter.” She yanked at the black tie hanging from her neck, twisting the dark fabric through her fingers. Héctor shifted his hands, pressing them into the empty space of his lap, and frowned.  

“I’m not just going to forget that you asked me to take off my pants.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes as a new wave of heat colored her cheeks. Did he have to be so damn blunt about it?! _Then again, I was blunt too…._

“It’s not like that,” she insisted, for what felt like the thousandth time. “Don’t even go there. It’s not like that at all.” How dare he, that idiot, that _payaso_ —who did he think he was, jumping to conclusions? She knew exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn’t true. She was _not_ into Héctor Rivera, no matter what he thought. Wishful thinking on his part, that’s all it was.

“Then why?”

“Because… it’s because—” She growled, yanking a fistful of hair. “Ugh, are you really going to make me say it?!” Why couldn’t the ground just swallow her up right now? This wasn’t going at all like she’d planned! Of course, she hadn’t had much of a plan to begin with; it was more of a thought, really, and one that had clearly gotten too far out of hand.

Then again, she’d been banking on Héctor being able to do his weird mind-reading thing; sometimes it seemed like he knew exactly what she was thinking, long before she did. But this was clearly not one of those times. _Of course,_ she grumbled. _That would’ve been far too easy._ Why couldn’t he just glean the answer from all the context clues… or better yet, why did he need an answer at all? Any other guy in their _preparatoria_ would have bent over backwards for the chance to be naked in front of her!  Here she was, giving him a free pass, and he was ruining it with his logic!  

“Uh, yeah?” He cocked his head at her, bangs falling to the side. “Well, I mean… I think that if you want me to strip, I should know why I’m doing it.” His expression was utterly baffled, remorse and confusion warring for dominance. It was clear that he didn’t understand at all, and he was sorry for it. But he also knew—they both knew—that if he apologized one more time, she would snap. The last thing he wanted was a pounding headache, courtesy of her shoe. “I wouldn’t ask you to take off your skirt without giving you a good reason.”

Damnit, he had a point.

“ _Ay, dios mío_.” Imelda rubbed her eyes again, no longer caring about her makeup. Two black eyes was a small price to pay for her own stupid question. She would be lucky to leave the clearing with her sanity at this point. _Why did I even bring this up?_ In hindsight, wouldn’t it have been better to just sneak an anatomy book from the science lab? Or, better yet: the local library was there for a reason. It wouldn’t have been a lie—in a technical sense, anyway—to claim she was doing research for school.

Peering through her fingers, she looked him over with a sigh. Unkempt hair, shirt open against the heat of the day, slumped over until his posture _looked_ painful, still watching her with those warm, soft eyes. Books and websites, encyclopedias and diagrams could only show her so much. She’d always been a hands-on type of person when it came to detail. She had no fear of getting her nails dirty.

She wasn’t top of her class for nothing, after all.

On top of that, it wasn’t enough to know what a man _looked_ like. She needed facts, specifics, knowledge that only came about through personal, up-close examination. She wasn’t about to flounder her way through another conversation, living in fear of being found out as a fraud. Porn and risqué magazines were too dangerous to have on hand, especially in a house with nosy twin brothers sneaking into her room. What she’d needed was a living specimen… a guinea pig. A personal science experiment.

She’d needed a man, someone who was easy to access and yet would uphold a vow of secrecy. Someone who wouldn’t try to be fresh, or force her into some kind of tit-for-tat contract she would feel obligated to accept. Someone who wouldn’t be averse to her studying them in a purely scientific way, with no expectations and certainly no strings attached.

That’s why she’d chosen Héctor. A good friend, trustworthy and loyal, who wouldn’t any expect more of her than she’d expect of herself. She knew that if she explained her reasoning, he’d be more than willing to come to her aid. He was always so eager to help her—always had been—and this was something that really only _he_ could be trusted to do for her.

“Look… I’ll just say it straight.” She rubbed her forehead, fingers prodding at her temples as she gathered her resolve. All she had to do was tell him in a calm, rational manner. Just five minutes of his time was all she asked for… unless it took more than five minutes to get erect? _I should have brought a stopwatch. So much for being prepared._

“…Yes?” _Calm and rational. Calm, and rational._

“I want to see your penis.”

“¿¡ _Qué_!?” He jumped as though her words were an electric shock, knees coming up to his chest defensively to hide his clothed groin. “W-w-what for?!” he managed to croak, eyes flicking from her to the exit tunnel they’d beaten down to dusty earth after years of crawling beneath the bushes.  

“I need to know it works, that’s all.” She rolled her eyes at his dramatics. “Like I said, don’t even go there. This is—it’s because I’m a virgin, okay? It has nothing to do with you.”

“I think it has a lot to do with me!” he retorted, arms pulling his legs closer to his thin torso. He rested his chin on his knees, frowning down at the empty grass between them. “ _Pero_ , _no entiendo_ : what does your virginity have to do with anything?” His forehead crinkled, bushy brows nearly meeting over his nose. “I’m a virgin too, you know.”

“You don’t think I know that?!” His mouth jumped, face full of wounded pride.

“…Is it that obvious?”

“No, I— _ugh_!” she groaned, sliding her hands over her perfectly sleeked hair and wishing she could just dig her fingers into the soft, neat locks without ruining her ponytail. “Okay, okay. This doesn’t have to do with virgins or not virgins, it—”

“But you just said—”

“ _I know what I just said_!” She drew in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. _Calm and rational, Imelda. This is for science. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you._ “I know you don’t understand it, Héctor. It’s because you’re you, and I’m me.” He blinked slowly, letting the sentence settle before sinking farther into the protective fortress of his knees.  

“And?” He mumbled, voice muffled behind his slacks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She threw up her hands in defeat, cursing up a storm inside her brain before burying it deep in her chest. It boiled with her other emotions, festering below her ribs until she wanted to stand up and scream. She didn’t, though; taking another deep breath, she gathered her thoughts behind steepled fingers before trying to explain.

“Look: it’s like this.” She gestured to herself: pressed white blouse, pleated skirt, intelligent expression covered by perfect hair and a good skincare routine. A quintessential schoolgirl, the kind that both teachers and students loved. It wasn’t her, not exactly; the real Imelda only surfaced in certain places, hidden carefully behind the pretty mask she showed to the world. But it was a part of her, and it was enough.

“Girls like me? We’re expected to know certain things. About guys, and… and what they like. Think about it like this, Héctor: I’m class president, valedictorian, in three different clubs, with a seat on the student council, a peer mentor _and_ a part-time tutor.” She tossed her hair, brows arching imperiously. “If I’m not popular, then what am I?”

“Busy?”

“A _nerd_.” He snorted, shaking his head quickly; even with his face half-hidden by his arms, she could tell he was grinning. She felt a little flutter and pushed it away, even as it tried to expand in her chest. She was happy she could make him smile, but she didn’t have time for that right now. She had a mission.

“You’ll never be a nerd, ‘Melda.” His eyes softened, watching her closely from behind his bangs. She felt another, stronger flutter at the words and scoffed. 

“ _Because_ I’m popular,” she excused herself, ignoring how warm her face was. It was late afternoon, after all—of course the heat of the day would reach here, even with the shade all around them. “But I’m not going to stay popular if I don’t meet the requirements. All of my friends have already… experimented.”

“Experimented?”

“I want _my_ first time to be special. Something I can really enjoy, with someone I care about. _Not_ penciled in somewhere between debate club and the council meeting.” She felt a real flush color her cheeks and huffed in annoyance, yanking handfuls of grass out of the ground and tossing them into the bushes. Was that really too much to ask? A girl had the right to wait until marriage to have sex… right? Or was that something too old-fashioned? Was she the only girl in Santa Cecelia who still felt that way?

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait. Rewind.” Héctor rose back up to mostly-full height, frowning with genuine puzzlement. “ _All_ of them? All your friends?”

“ _S_ _í_. That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

“Even Raquel? Lucía?”

“Yes, and _definitely_.”

“Chela?”

“Pretty damn sure, Héctor.” Imelda shook her head, sucking in an impatient breath between her teeth. What was this, twenty questions? “When I say ‘all my friends’, I usually mean _all_ of my friends.” After all, Chela was the main reason they were sitting here now!

“But I thought… Chimo said that….” He blanked, face impassive. “Forget it.” _Okay, now that’s interesting._

“No, go on. What did Chimo say?”

“N-nothing.”

“Héctor _._ ” She crossed her arms, curiosity piqued. “What is it?” 

“ _No importa_.” 

“Don’t make me come over there and pin you down until you confess.” He glanced at her, clearly startled. What was the matter _now_? It wouldn’t be the first time she pinned him, and it certainly wasn’t about to be the last! He acted like the thought had never occurred to her before!

“I—I don’t—” He searched around the clearing, cheeks dark and sweat starting to bead on his nose. “W-we didn’t come here to talk about Chimo! A-and I don’t know—I’m not—why _me_?” he stammered, a visible tremor running through his frame. “Why did you pick me for this? Why does it have to be _mine_?”

“You were just the first guy I thought of.” She shrugged, picking apart a blade of grass. The long, thin strips separated with a squeaky, almost wet sound. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes, but felt the air in the clearing thicken between them. She swallowed hard, trying to think of something else to add. _Calm, rational… casual. Be casual, Imelda._ “Any man would do, I guess.”  

He was silent for so long that she had no choice but to look up. The raw expression on his face shocked her; he was clearly upset, and for once she had no idea _why_. It wasn’t as if she’d said anything to offend him. For a long, bewildered moment their eyes met and she stared, trying to understand what she’d said to make him look like that. Then he cast his eyes around the clearing, looking for his things.

“Well,” he replied, his voice strangely distant, “if any man can do it, you won’t mind finding someone else.”

“What?”

“Find someone else,” he repeated, reaching for his books.

“But—I—” she sputtered, trying to coerce her tongue into saying three sentences at the same time. He wasn’t supposed to _leave_! Her mouth fell open, brain stalling as she watched him sling the satchel over his shoulder, giving her one last look before turning to the exit. “Héctor, wait!” He paused at the mouth of the exit, hands fisting in the grass, and then turned expectantly.

“What?”

“Héctor, I—” She sighed, the frustration welling inside her again: this time at herself. Why was this so hard to say outright? “It’s because I trust you, okay?! I chose you because… because I knew I could trust you.”

“You… you trust me?” She nearly screaming in exasperation; of course she trusted him! Why did he even have to ask? They’d been friends for over a decade now. It was only natural that she felt a close bond with him, something she didn’t have with their other male peers. Something that made her comfortable with the idea of seeing him naked.

“Duh!” The sound burst out of her, echoing in the woods around them. His nose crinkled, expression dissolving into annoyance—something she recognized, but wasn’t used to coming from him _._ It was almost laughable, to think that sweet, easygoing Héctor Rivera had the ability to be annoyed at someone. Of course, it was directed at her, which wasn’t helping her cause any. He was clearly waiting for some further explanation.

“Look,” she started again, clearing her throat quickly. If she didn’t pick up the pace, he might run out of patience entirely. She wasn’t about to chase him all the way back to town, pleading her case; she didn’t chase _anyone_ , and wasn’t about to start now. “I mean it, Héctor. I trust you.”

“I—and?” He shifted, the satchel sliding on his bony shoulder. “So what? You’re right. Any guy will do. And there’s plenty of them willing to drop their pants for the first cute girl that asks. Including you.” He turned back to the tunnel, dismissing her. “You’ll manage.”

“But they’re not you!” The moment she blurted the words she knew they were true… and she wished she could take them back. His head whipped around, fast enough that she wondered he didn’t get whiplash. “What I mean is… most of the boys at school are big jerks. You know that.” 

 _“_ Then why would you say that to me?” He didn’t drop his satchel, but his body sagged back into a loose posture. He was staying… for the moment. _Just hear me out,_ she half-pleaded in the back of her mind.

“I just meant anatomically!” She tried to keep her voice calm, neutral and unaffected; instead, it was awkward and jittery, the words either too small or too loud. She ran her fingers through her ponytail, neatly-trimmed nails separating the curls until they started to frizz.

“I see.” _Damnit, the last thing I want is for him to think I’m shy_! It didn’t help that there _was_ a measure of bashfulness, hiding cleverly just beneath her other, more potent emotions. It had caught her unawares, and now she was nearly babbling in her hurry to explain herself before he left her alone.

“Those jerks, they’d try to do something stupid like blackmail me— they’d want me to lift my skirt, or show my tits or something. But you wouldn’t. And you’ve always been good about helping me when I needed it. I just thought….” She trailed off, still working her hair into a nice frizz and unable to stop herself. She knew it was unseemly—and really, a little unfair—to whine, but she couldn’t help adding, “Besides: I’d help _you_ , if it was the other way around.” 

“ _Imelda._ ” He tilted his head, giving her a look that he usually reserved for Ernesto. It was clear that he saw right through her bluff; if the tables were turned, she’d be just as hesitant, if not more, of baring herself. Even if it _was_ only for him, and in an entirely nonsexual context.

“Fine, fine,” she conceded. “Whatever. Are you going to help me, or not?” The clearing fell silent. She waited, fingers laced, trying not to fidget. Slowly—too slowly for her liking— the satchel slid from his grasp. It hit the bushes behind him, thorns snagging the worn straps and scratching new dents into the threadbare cloth. She felt a quiver of hope. If he’d dropped the satchel… if he was flopping back onto his rear… if his legs were falling apart in their usual, easygoing manner… did that mean?

Just as she was starting to feel that he’d taken her words to heart, that her compliments to his character weren’t unnoticed—he grinned. Her heart froze midbeat, a solid stone in her chest that sank, dread-filled, to her stomach. She knew that smirk, that smug curl to his mouth that left her infuriated, irritated… and, for some strange reason, blushing.

“Say please.”  For a moment, her brain could barely register that he spoke. It was stuck on _please_ , the sound loud and clanging in in her head. She couldn’t move past it, appalled that he’d even—he had the nerve to tease her in a moment like this! Here she was, trying her best to keep things in the mature realm of adulthood, and he had to bring it back down to his asinine teenage level with something as ridiculous as—as— _please_!?

“Héctor!” It was almost a relief when her blood boiled, anger taking its rightful hold at the forefront of her emotions. Being shy around him was something new, unfamiliar and frankly weird. Being _annoyed_ at him, on the other hand; that, she could handle. “You—you jerk! You’re just as bad as the rest of them!” Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly true, but….

“Hey! A little courtesy for the guy willing to help you out!” He squeezed his ankles, leaning to the side as he waited with that same awful, knowing smirk. Suddenly the anger became embarrassment, faster than she could try to prevent it. One moment she wanted to let his face meet her loafer, and the next—well, the next she was looking everywhere but at him.

“I—you—” Her fingers twisted in the pleats of her skirt, wrinkling the neat creases Mamá ironed into them every week. “Fine!” She couldn’t meet his eyes, so she glared down at her tie until she could see the individual threads making up the black cloth. “ _A_ - _ayúdame_ , _p_ … _por favor_.” The words hung between them, wavering in the warm air.

“ _Por supuesto_ ,” he agreed, in a different voice entirely. She heard the shuffle of cloth, slacks scratching against leafy, loamy earth. “It—it’s kind of hard for me to say no.” Was he already taking off his trousers? She hoped so, wanting his seemingly natural confidence to take over; yet, in the same way she was afraid that he _had_ , too quickly for her to prepare herself. It didn’t matter; he’d only braced his feet on the ground, hands dangling between partly-raised knees. “There’s not much I wouldn’t do…. if you asked me nicely.”

“What does—whatever!” she snapped, nose in the air. Did he think he could just mock her and get away with it? _I really should have just tried sneaking porn into the house. It would have been so much easier…._ “Don’t you dare think that you can hold this over my head later, Rivera!”

“Imelda—”

“I mean it! If you come back in a week and think you can say I—”

“ _Imelda_.” His hands landed on his waistband and she fell silent, burning head to toe with something… anticipation? Fear? “It’s okay.” His smile softened as he assured her, fingers running along the cloth clasp that hid the buttons from view. “You trust me, right?” Even as she fought to inhale, the answer slid out of her in a rush of breath.

“Yes.”

“Then I trust you, too.” With a flick, the clasp fell open. Two metal buttons, and a zipper beneath them. A pathetic barrier glinting in the shadows of the waving canopy. She stared unabashedly at his groin, khaki-covered and smooth; there was a small bulge, barely noticeable and almost innocent in its insignificance. “Uh…” He paused, fingers on the buttons, and she saw his face darken with the beginnings of another blush. “Erm… do you mind just… looking away? While I do this?”

“Oh… sure.” This was fine; now there wouldn’t have to be any weird eye contact while he extracted himself—for lack of a better term. She scrunched her eyes shut like a kid, shoulders hunched and nose wrinkled as she waited for the go-ahead to look. The first _zpppp_ of his zipper, loud in the otherwise silent clearing, made her jump foolishly. Her hands tightened into fists on her thighs, jaw clenching in determination.

 _There’s no backing out now. You fought too hard for it._ A strange eagerness, tempered with uncertainty, sent her heart dancing behind her ribcage. What would she see when she opened her eyes? She knew the basics, of course; years of chasing after her little brothers had made that a certainty. But this wasn’t the body of a little boy. Even if he didn’t act like one, Héctor was a man. And a man’s body… a man’s penis…. It was as scary as it was exciting.

“I—I, um… okay. You can open your eyes now.” Was this what it felt like to be on one of those roller coasters? She’d never been on one before, but she was sure this is what it was to be on the front row, perched on top of the first hill and staring down into the steep drop. She knew what was coming, and yet it wasn’t until it happened that she would fully understand. _Might as well get the first shock over with… if it’s a shock at all._

Gulping, she gathered her resolve and opened her eyes.

Her first instinct was to look directly at his groin, everything inside of her screaming _just get it over with_! However, she couldn’t help but notice his face first; whatever lay between his thighs would have to wait. His chin was pressed against his right shoulder, his eyes locked firmly on a spot somewhere in the bushes. A faint pink slowly gathered on his cheeks: the tips of his ears, his nose, even his chin darkening.

His gaze flickered towards her, just long enough to see that she was looking directly at him. A little thrill went through her as the color doubled in his cheeks, brow wrinkling; he quickly turned back to whatever he’d been staring at, swallowing hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swift dip, the movement drawing her inquisitive eyes down towards the column of his throat. 

His throat was equally interesting. Thin lines of muscle, running down to bridge at his shoulders, working in unison as he swallowed and tensing along with his jaw. The tic of his pulse, blood pumping just beneath the skin—oh, the _skin._ Unmarred and smooth, with a few dark patches close to his jaw and his ears where the uneven hair he’d shaved was already starting to grow back. Her mouth grew dry, alarm bells clanging in the back of her mind. Why was something as simple as a neck— _his_ neck—so distracting all of a sudden?

Her eyes went further south, to his chest. The two sharp raised lines that made his collarbone, a jutting boundary between the smooth, sun-kissed skin below his throat and a dusting of wiry chest hair. He didn’t have much, at least not yet; she knew boys who were proud of the thick carpet on their chests, so heavy that it was impossible to see the skin beneath. His was still sparse, but what little he had was curly and dark. It tangled on his flat pecs, dampened with sweat from the afternoon heat and sticking to the skin beneath. Flat nipples, a few shades darker than the skin around them, gave way to the outline of his ribs.

His shirt, hanging open at the sides, still covered the majority of his ribcage. Their presence was reduced to shadows, small curves that appeared with every breath. More hair, even scanter than what lay on his chest, flared slightly around his navel in a natural trail leading to his stomach. Her mouth grew even drier at the sight; a part of her wondered how it could even be possible, when she hadn’t been thirsty all afternoon.

His stomach had a naturally sloping contour, the shape of his lowest ribs defined by his diaphragm. She’d thought, skinny as he was, that his belly would be the rock-hard, defined abdomen she saw in the magazines her friends passed around at sleepovers. But there were no washboard abs in sight. Instead it was flat, and looked curiously soft to the touch. Her fingers twitched on her thigh, eyes following the concave bend that disappeared into the loose waistband of his opened slacks.

From the smooth valley, the lines of his hips rose in a sharp vee, outlining the expanse of his stomach until it met his sides in two gangly hipbones. The point of the vee culminated in the biggest, darkest patch of hair on his body—aside, she supposed, from his eyebrows—at the apex of his thighs. And there, in the center, jutting from the dark curls…. She resisted the urge to nervously lick her lips, staring openly at the—at his—

 _His penis, Imelda. His dick, his cock,_ she scolded herself. _This is no time to be a prude._ It was true, but none of the words seemed to mesh well with her mental image of Héctor. Those were words used at the doctor’s, or in porn. Even the romance novels she and her friends snuck to school, the dirty parts bookmarked and highlighted, hardly ever used those bold, brazen words. Still….

 _Fine._ His cock, then. She fought the blush that rose with the term, willing herself to be mature enough to say it in her mind, if not aloud. His cock, seated in its nest of black curls, resting demurely in his cupped palm. Fleshier than she expected, the same warm color as the rest of his skin, with his long fingers wrapped carefully around the shaft. His balls were half-hidden behind bony knuckles, and from the folds of skin near the tip poked something… darker.

 _The head,_ her mind supplied with a start. She hadn’t given a single thought to whether or not Héctor was circumcised. Raquel’s boyfriend, she quickly remembered, was also uncircumcised; her friend had spoken about the foreskin before, and how it covered some of the more sensitive parts. Looking at it, she felt a strange curiosity. Did all men feel the same sensitivity there? Was Héctor incredibly sensitive? How would she go about finding that out? She didn’t trust herself to ask, not without being asked in return why she cared.

She didn’t know why she cared… but she did.

To her relief, the longer she stared the easier it was to look at. After all, in the end it was just… well, it looked—the point was, she could stare at it without getting embarrassed. Maybe by the time her friends bothered to ask her any questions, she could even talk about it without flushing. But… she realized, quite suddenly, that she had no way of knowing if he were average or not. Sure, it _looked_ long, reaching past his fingers and dangling towards the ground, but how long was long? Was he the average male size, or bigger, or—God forbid he was _smaller_!

“O-okay. You’ve s-seen it now.” Héctor’s voice jumped higher than usual, nearly squeaking in his nervousness. He moved to cover up, his free hand digging past his thighs in search of his boxers. She drew in an involuntary breath, a flurry of panic running through her at the sight; he missed it, the sound hidden under his pants’ heavy rustling.

“¡ _Espera_!” The exclamation forced its way out of her, sounding loud after their hushed voices. Sure, she’d seen it, but she wasn’t finished seeing it! There was still curiosity to be sated, other angles, questions she wanted to ask. She wasn’t here to half-ass this; if she had to lie to her peers to save her own virtue, well… _no hay más remedio_. But she would know exactly what she was talking about. There was no room for doubt.

“¿ _Para qué_?” He sat frozen, eyes wide in his thin face. It was a comical look, with his bushy eyebrows all scrunched and mouth hanging open. She cleared her throat, rising to her knees before regarding him with what she hoped was a calm expression. Grass stuck to the back of her skirt, sweat pooling beneath her arms and on the back of her neck.

“I want a closer look,” she all but demanded, trying to sound more impatient than eager. The reason behind her eagerness was unclear; usually her brothers were the ones engrossed in their little experiments. Science was far from her favorite subject, even if she did excel in it. But, then again, this was far more interesting than the usual fare. There were so many hypotheses…. Would Héctor object to an impromptu interview? It would be a little weird, with his cock hanging out like that, but surely he could find no qualms with showing her a bit about how it worked.

“C-Closer!?” His legs again jerked towards his chest, hunkering in a clearly protective stance. She paused, balancing on her knees, and waited until he managed to speak. “How much closer do you think you’re going to get?” It wasn’t meant to sound like a challenge; his voice was high and reedy, breaking like a preteen’s. It grated on her ears, and despite whatever he _meant_ it to be, she took it as a challenge nonetheless. Nostrils flaring, she dropped onto her palms and began crawling towards him. Ankles nearly crossed, she kept her legs high to keep the grass stains from her white school socks as she crept towards him with scowling, single-minded purpose.

“As close as I please,” she snapped, reaching his side and flopping onto the grass beside him. He cringed away, relaxing slowly when she showed no further signs of movement. They sat side by side, hips barely touching and staring straight ahead while the moment settled. One part of her was amazed that she was able to be so bold, so… nonchalant about the whole thing— _then again_ , a smaller voice snickered, _you’ve also stopped looking at his groin, haven’t you_?

“Uh—” He jumped when she turned to look at him, her ponytail smacking against his shoulder. She rolled her eyes, slumping more of her weight onto her hands with a frown. 

“You act like I’m going to bite you or something,” she reproached, mouth pursed. He didn’t reply, chewing on his lower lip as he searched her face. Their eyes met: his uncertain, hers determined, each sizing the other up. He looked away first. “I just want to look,” she huffed, nearly whining. She sounded like a spoiled brat, but it wasn’t enough to keep her from adding, “What’s the difference between looking over there, and looking over here?”

“I should be asking _you_ that!” he pointed out, hands splayed on his knees. “What is the difference?” Her breath came out in a low hiss, nose wrinkling; of all the times for him to be throwing her own words back at her! And of _course_ she couldn’t think up a good excuse. She hunched her shoulders, stewing for a moment. Why couldn’t he just stop arguing and make this easy?

 _Then again, he was always just as stubborn as—_ she refused to finish that thought. She was not stubborn, no matter what her parents said. And her friends. And her teachers, her schoolmates, her brothers—

“ _Ay_ , if you’re going to pout….” She looked just to see _his_ eyes rolling, exhaling through his nose with a put-upon sigh.

“I’m not pouting!” The look he gave her was enough to prevent any further denial; alright, so maybe she was pouting a _little_ , but only because he kept interfering with her study! A good guinea pig would just shut up and let her look to her heart’s content! He wouldn’t be so—so— _H_ _é_ _ctor_! Stupid, ridiculous, thinking he was so witty with his little bantering and crooked grins and—

His legs fell open and, oddly enough, every thought she had ground to an immediate halt. The strange dry feeling in her mouth came back full force, along with a weird tingling that ran down her spine. She sat up straighter, heart in her throat, and gathered the courage to openly peer down over his left knee. After a minute’s pondering, she dismissed her bizarre reaction as delayed excitement for getting her way.

“See?” she managed to say, her voice tight in the back of her throat. “I don’t know why you were so overdramatic about this.” He didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer, his eyes turned to the leafy canopy above them. He tensed when she scooted closer, his bony hip digging into the meat of her upper thigh.

Peering around his arm, she scrutinized him from this new, closer angle. Maybe she was just getting used to it—exposure therapy?—but he didn’t seem as large up close. Less formidable, certainly. There was a little spot she hadn’t seen before, a dot hidden behind his pinkie… a freckle? _How does someone get a freckle on their penis? He had to have—_

She pulled herself out of those thoughts with a little shake, setting aside the mental images of skinny-dipping and naked sunbathing for another time. In their absence, a startling thought brewed. _I want to touch… that freckle._ As childlike as the impulse was, the ones following it were decidedly less so. _What does it feel like? Warm? Soft? It looks soft. And smooth, probably. Does he moisturize—he would, wouldn’t he? Boys use lotion for that, right? Does that count as—_

Nostrils flaring, she clenched her jaw and forced the thoughts out of her mind. That wasn’t what she was here for, and she wasn’t about to waste a question with something as idiotic as freckles and penis skincare routine. She had to play her cards right; this was probably the only chance she’d have until she was ready to lose her virginity. As for touching him, that was something else altogether. He was already nervous enough as it was, and she was only looking. Touching was off the table… right?

“I want to ask a question.” Her chin bumped against his bicep; she let it rest there, pressing into the crisp sleeve of his shirt as she turned her face up to him. He glanced over, their faces close enough that she could see things she’d never noticed before: the uneven smattering of freckles over his cheeks, the curl of his lower lashes, the slope of his jaw, her own startled, curious reflection in his irises.

“Um.” The sound brushed her cheeks in a warm puff of air. She hadn’t been this close to a boy since the time she kissed Santiago Rodríguez on a dare. Her eyes dropped to his lips at the thought, remembering the rough scratch of Santiago’s mouth against her own behind the ballfield. Héctor’s, on the other hand—a little chapped, true, but they didn’t look _terrible._ What would it be like to kiss him? What would he do if she leaned up and closed the gap between them? Why was she even thinking these things to begin with?!  

“Okay… I mean, I guess.” He swallowed, tongue darting across his lower lip with a swipe so fast, she nearly missed it. “Go ahead.” He didn’t seem uncomfortable enough to push her away; in fact, he didn’t seem uncomfortable about that at all. His nerves were for her inquiries, not her nearness. He was alright with her leaning on him this way?

Then again, why shouldn’t he be? They’d been touching their whole friendship. She couldn’t count the times they’d piled together on her bed, thumbing through kids magazines and eating the entire box of snack cakes they’d snuck from the kitchen. Or slumped in the shade outside the movie theater, shoulder to shoulder as they waited for the groaning, rusty sound of Papá’s old jalopy. Their whole lives had been splashing in the river, running through the woods together, tackling and wrestling and _touching_. There was no reason for nervousness.

Then… why was she getting nervous?

“What I want to ask is—” She forced her eyes back to his sex, laying so sweetly in his curled palm. Now that she thought about it, it really was just another one of his body parts. Long, smooth, a little awkward to look at, probably easily bruised… though of course she had no desire to see _that_.

Letting out a low breath, she considered the best way to ask her question. Blunt was probably the best option, even if it sounded ruder. She wanted to be more personal, shedding some of the scientific frigidness, but she didn’t know how to do it without coming across as too… interested.

_Am I interested?_

_No, of course not_ , she immediately berated herself. _This is **H**_ ** _é_** ** _ctor_** _. I am not interested in H_ _é_ _ctor Rivera._ Unwittingly, her eyes roamed back to the sharp lines of his face. Her fingers twitched, itching to reach out and trace the angle of his cheekbones, to feel the smooth shadows created by dim sunlight. Her fingertips danced over them in her mind, counting the freckles from his nose all the way to his ears.

“¿ _S_ _í_?” He pulled her out of her fantasy— _no, not a fantasy, just a little… lapse—_ smiling anxiously when she gaped up at him. “A-aren’t you going to ask me something?”  

“What I want to ask is—” she tried again, the words tumbling clumsily from her lips, “—is… if you’d show me how you….” She hesitated, inhaling sharply before taking the plunge. “How you get it up.” She’d never seen someone’s jaw fall open before, but there was no other way to describe the way his lips parted, chin hanging and eyebrows jumping high on his forehead.

“What?” His voice was little more than a wheeze, lungs emptying in her face with a sputter. Immediately she leaned back, wiping flecks of saliva from her cheek with a scowl. “ _What_?!” he repeated, croaking loud enough that a bird above them rose into the air with a frantic caw.

“Nothing!” She cringed back, every bone in her body focused on not frizzing her ponytail into an untamed mess. She’d clearly just crossed a line, and now there was no going back. There was no way to play it off, or pretend she’d said something else. She couldn’t even act like it was a joke at this point. “I just thought—well, if someone asked me later about—you know—” she mumbled, nearly tearing her hair out of the loose tie as she wound it around her fingers.

“Let me get this straight.” He ran both hands through his hair, pulling at his temples with a muted groan. “Y-you want… you want to watch me _jack off_?” Utterly humiliated, she was reduced to little more than a too-awkward shrug. She picked at her nails, eyes locked on her peeling cuticles as she let out an undignified noise that was meant to be casual and nonchalant. “You said you only wanted to look!” he added, accusing. His expression was guarded, suspicion and doubt replacing the shy, sweet uncertainty that had been so evident across the clearing.

“I did—I mean, I do!” She picked harder, resisting the urge to chew on her thumbnails as she searched for something to say that would diffuse the situation. “I didn’t say you had to… to finish,” she pointed out, barely able to rise above a mumble. “I just—never mind. It was a dumb question.” There was only one option to choose, the one that would save what little shred of dignity she had left: go home, right now. “Come on, let’s just get out of here.”

Now it was her turn to rise to her knees, grabbing for her bag. She turned to the tunnel, ready to make a beeline for the exit. She wanted to get out of the clearing and _run_ : through the woods, through the edge of town, through Santa Cecelia, all the way home. She wouldn’t stop running until she was in her room with the door locked, huddled beneath every blanket she owned and slowly dying of embarrassment.

His hand grabbed her wrist, fingers squeezing until she stopped mid-crouch. She looked over her shoulder to see his face as red as her own, eyes pleading with her to stay. It was the eyes that always did it; no matter how angry she was at him, or how annoyed, or embarrassed, or—or—or _anything_ , those eyes stopped her from dismissing him entirely. Those sweet brown eyes, fringed by dark lashes, somehow able to see straight through her bluffs. 

He tugged her until she fell back, landing on her backside in the dent she’d made beside him. Her bag fell to the soft grass, items clinking inside. She stared blankly at it, tracing the stitched pattern on the strap with her eyes as she waited for him to say something. She had nothing to say, nothing that wouldn’t make her feel even worse off, and she was sure there was nothing _he_ could say that would improve the situation any, either—

“Do you have anything that’s slick?” 

For a long moment, she thought she hadn’t heard him right. Surely he hadn’t—had he? She tore her eyes from her bag, looking at him through her ponytail. He let her hand go, fingers sliding from her wrist; the feel of his calloused fingertips, where the bandages couldn’t reach, against her skin sent a thrill up her arm. Her heart skipped a beat, jumping into her throat.

 “You—you’re going to—do it?” she choked.

“If you really want me to,” he conceded, chewing at his lip. She watched his teeth as it worried the flesh, tugging before letting it bounce back. “If you ask me to.” An abrupt sensation filled her mind, blotting out every other thought: those flat teeth nibbling at _her_ lip instead, his tongue swiping a wet, soothing trial in their wake.

She recognized the move from her favorite _libro erótico_. It was the scene where the heroine is first swept off her feet by her rakish lover. She’d never thought of herself in a situation like that, but now, substituting herself and Héctor— _H_ _é_ _ctor!_ Of all people! Of all the guys at her school, in her town, in her _country_ …. Her traitorous brain wasn’t through with her, supplying endless girlish fantasies one after the other: beaches, countrysides, the flowing white clothing of romance novel covers, his lanky arms gathering her up against his bare chest, passion-filled gazes intended to make her swoon—

“I have hand lotion in my bag.” She winced at the sound of it. He probably thought she’d planned this for weeks, but that wasn’t the case at all. It wasn’t preemptive; she carried her favorite coconut hand cream year-round, taking pride in preparedness. One never knew when lotion would be needed in a pinch: dry skin, stuck jewelry, static-y clothing, it even removed stubborn stickers… and it smelled good to boot.

She peered into the shadowy darkness of her schoolbag, shoving aside her debate club notebook in search of the inner pocket’s zipper. Half her arm disappeared inside the bag as she dug inside the pocket, feeling over the mishmash of items impatiently: mascara tubes, hair ties, a myriad of pencils and pens, spare sanitary napkins, half a packet of Kleenex, and countless discarded jewelry. She flinched back from an earring that tried to lodge beneath her fingernail, and the back of her palm brushed over the smooth, cold tube of lotion.

She pulled it out, checking automatically to make sure there was enough. The tube was over half full, the gold edging around the label glinting brightly in the sunlight. _Organic Hand and Nail Cream: Virgin Coconut_. She felt a rush of warmth at the wording, biting the tip of her tongue until she tasted iron. If he said a single word about _virgin_ , then she’d… she’d….

“Here.” She swallowed the taste of blood, tossing her bag to the side and ignoring the papers that threatened to spill over the grass. She turned back to him, hand outstretched, cupping the tube in her palm nearly the same way he cupped himself. He faltered, looking from her hand to her face and back again. She watched the muscle in his jaw tic, remembering his earlier words. _There’s not much I wouldn’t do…. if you asked me nicely._ Sucking in her lower lip, she resolved herself to the small loss of her pride. “Show me… _por favor,_ Héctor.” 

“ _S_ - _s_ _í_.” He took the tube from her hand, taking care that he touched only the tube, and not her as well. She didn’t blame him; something about the thought of their hands brushing made her feel all jumpy and anxious. It was bad enough that her wrist still tingled where he’d grabbed it, prickly hot just beneath her skin.

He looked at the tube, letting out an involuntary snort when he saw the name; she barely resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands, disguising the involuntary movement as an attempt to brush back her hair. She tensed at the sharp _pop_ of the tube’s lid, looking through her fingers to see him cautiously sniffing at the top. He paused, eyes widening, and then she watched in amazement as his face deepened in a dangerously dark flush.

“I-is something wrong?” She cleared her throat a little too loudly, gulping before biting the skin around her thumbnail. His eyes flickered to her and he ducked his head, hair flopping everywhere as he shook it wildly.

“N-no! It’s just… it smells like you.” He took a moment to twist the bandages off his right hand, shoving them deep into his pocket with a huff before squirting a sizeable amount of lotion into his palm. She caught the scent of the coconut, fresh in the forest air, and watched as he rubbed it between his palms with an almost thoughtful expression. It squelched as he pressed his hands together, wiping his left hand on his slacks and pulling his dry, chaffed callouses through the white goop.

He jerked when she inched closer, closing the space between them once more. She waited for him to tell her to stop, or to lean back, or move away; he did none of those things, even when their hips were again pressed flush to each other. He shifted against her uncomfortably, legs flat to the ground, and rested his weight on his free hand. She tucked her knees to the side, drawing her hair over her far shoulder so it wouldn’t be in the way. 

She stared at the white steaks of lotion on his fingers, pooled in his palm and greasy on the edges of his hand. Was that what… _it_ … looked like? _Egg whites,_ her more experienced friends laughed. She thought of the clear, sticky liquid that pooled around a raw egg yolk, slime sliding from her fingers into the sink and disappearing down the drain when she rinsed off her hands. She couldn’t imagine anything like that coming from anyone, much less Héctor.

He inhaled slowly, blowing it through clenched teeth before trying to smile at her. It didn’t work, his grin falling flat with every passing second. She tried to rouse herself as well, managing a small smile that—if her clenched facial muscles were as tight as they felt—looked more painful than encouraging. Painful or not, he accepted it with a terse nod.

Turning to his groin, he let out another hard exhale. She watched with bated breath, lungs burning, waiting for the first contact the same way Ernesto waited for fireworks on Independence Day. Her breath caught in her throat when he ran his hand down the shaft, over the head and back towards the nest of curls at its base.

He repeated the motion absently, shoulders sagging with a muted sigh. His eyes were locked across the clearing, staring at nothing with a faint flush still visible on his cheeks. She could imagine him like this in his bedroom, the thick tangle of branches replaced by a paper-thin apartment wall. Did he do it while Ernesto was home? Or did he wait until he was alone, where he could indulge his thoughts without being interrupted?

He had to be lost in his own mind; no one sat and watched empty space like that, even if they _were_ masturbating. What did he think about, when he touched himself? _Who_ did he think about? Celebrities? Actresses? The scantily-clad women in magazines? Or was it someone closer, someone more… accessible? Would he even tell her, if she asked?

She watched, utterly enraptured as her eyes tracing the firm press of his fingers down his shaft. Her heart sped up with every stroke, thumping heavily behind her breastbone as she watched the smooth motion of his foreskin as it followed his hand before sliding easily into place. He glistened from the lotion, the bright sheen on his skin growing darker as the blood rushed to thrum beneath his fingertips. His index finger tapped along the barely-visible vein, thumbing over the slit and rubbing slowly until his thighs tensed.

She went back to his face, staring up through her lashes at the narrow curve of his jaw. It twitched, muscles popping every time he clenched his back teeth. She pressed closer, lips parted to inhale the aroma of coconut and something else, something muskier, that seemed to come directly from his skin. The mingled scents were intoxicating, errant thoughts running through her mind unchecked as she let it fill her.

She wanted to lean against his shoulder. She wanted to press her face to his neck, feeling his pulse as it leapt beneath her cheek. She wanted to taste his skin, drinking up the clean sweat and soap until her dry mouth was quenched. She wanted all of these things, and more—things she didn’t even know about yet, things her body craved without her knowledge, instinct guiding her thoughts.

Her heart was hammering now, beating against her ribcage. A knot of tension had made itself known in her lower stomach, burrowing deep against her intestines until she could feel it every time she shifted on the grass. She pressed her thighs together, trying to soothe the frustrating, aching sensations boiling in her guts. A breeze ran over her bare arms and she shivered, nestling closer against his side; the heat radiated through his clothing, burning into her arm.

What would it be like to run her hands beneath the protective shield of his shirt? To feel all that bare skin, _yards_ of it, all burning hot and so, so smooth? What would he say if she crawled onto his lap right now, pressing her palms to either side of his spine and pulling his chest flush with her own? They would be so close; his big, dumb face would be right next to hers, and his body was tall enough to curve around her, and she might eventually get warm even if she let him take her shirt off, too—

“Imelda.” Her name was hardly more than a whisper, but it caught her immediate attention. Her eyes snapped from his chest to his face, cheeks warm and head light. She’d been thinking about crawling on top of him? There were so many things wrong with that, she couldn’t even _begin_ to count them. After all, it was Héctor, and this wasn’t anything purely sexual between them… right? _Right_ , she affirmed. They were just two friends, leaning on each other in the forest. As platonic as could be.

It didn’t matter that she was starting to doubt the sincerity of those words. She’d just think about it later, when his pants weren’t down.

“What?” _No more thoughts._ For now, she had to focus on the handiwork itself… not the boy doing it. She was mature, she could distance herself from the emotional aspect.

“Y-You’re not even watching,” he scolded, face contorting in a sheepish grimace. He didn’t look directly at her, his gaze hovering between the thick expanse of brambles and the untrimmed grass. “You’re just s-staring at _me_ ,” he added, voice catching on a soft hitch. Guiltily, she let her eyes drop back to his groin; he was right, of course. She should be watching… she frowned, mouth pursing at the lack of progress.

“Nothing’s happening?” she blurted, trying to make excuse for her lapse in attention. This was apparently rude, so much so that she found herself on the receiving end of a rare Héctor Rivera _glare_. His brows twisted, furrowing over his nose as his lips pressed into a thin line. He rested his wrist, fingers wrapping around the shaft for a light squeeze.

“It’s not my fault,” he muttered, incensed. “It doesn’t mean—it’s a lot harder when you’re being watched!” He cleared his throat, rubbing his long nose on his far shoulder with a sniff. “Let’s see _you_ get wet when your—” he stopped midsentence, gulping before shaking his shoulders with a short jerk.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m just…. _Créase o no_ , I’m not used to an audience.”

“What, do you need help?” She’d meant it to be a snappy comeback, something to break the tension shimmering in the air between them. If he was irritated, he was less likely to be nervous, and then—no, that was _her_ , not him. Still, his eyes widened and she felt herself blush hard, everything from the roots down burning hot. It had sounded an awful lot like a suggestion… or, even worse, an offer.  

 They each sized the other up, his hand still on his cock and hers trembling on her lap. Their faces were close, noses brushing when he took a deep, sudden breath. Again the thought crossed her mind that it would be so easy—too easy—to lean up and press her lips to his, to taste the apprehension in his frown. A shudder ran down her spine, warmth filling her from the center out and leaving the hair raised on her arms.

This would be going back on her word. After all, hadn’t he said it himself? She’d promised only to look. Touching would be going a step further, a step past what she’d planned for. This was unknown territory. But the thought of it—the thought of taking him into her hands, of putting her fingers were his had been, of feel the sticky-smooth lotion and what lay coated beneath…. If they went that far, there would be no turning back. It wasn’t an experiment anymore if she touched him.

It would be an encounter.

“¿ _Qué dijiste_?” He swallowed shakily, smile trembling. Anxiety, fear, confusion, disbelief; his expression managed to hold all of them at once, each one taking its turn at the forefront while he waited for her answer. She licked her lips, stalling for time and unsure of how to reply. How could she say anything? How could she be this bold, to say something so openly suggestive while still so unsure of her own feelings?

It had been a slipup, and one that could potentially cost her dearly. She hadn’t foreseen this weakness on her part; she was bumbling and blushing like a teenage girl! Well, okay: she _was_ a teenage girl, but she definitely had the mental capacity of someone several years her senior! _This shouldn’t be happening to me, I’m not—H_ _é_ _ctor isn’t—_ For the first time, a tiny voice in her piped up to give its opinion. _Maybe I am interested… just a little…._

“I said….” As she watched, gathering her thoughts, his gaze fell to her mouth. He followed the curve of her lips as she spoke, a carmine spark flickering in his dark irises. It was something hungry, yearning, a _want_ ; he blinked and it was gone, hidden before she could understand its purpose. “I want to help.”

“’Melda—”

“Can I?” She knew full well that this was no suggestion. _This_ was a request. His eyes widened even further in blatant shock, but there was no panic, no denial, no burst of anger and embarrassment. She leaned up, her hand sneaking beneath his arm to press against the firm, cool ground and hold the brunt of her weight.

She was so much smaller than him, but he wasn’t moving away or trying to deter her. Even when her chest met his ribs, breasts pressing lightly into the bony meat of his underarm, he was still stoic—frozen, perhaps, or simply unwilling to lean away. Her entire body burned icy hot, his furnace-like body at her front and shade-cooled air at her back, aided by the prickly, aching heat in her core. She wanted to see that spark of fire in his eyes again. She wanted to let it kindle, then burn, then consume, until she could read what it meant.

“Let me help,” she implored him, still remembering the words he’d said. _If you asked me nicely._  Maybe he hadn’t meant them as advice, but it was sure coming in handy now. _There’s not much I wouldn’t do…._ There was so much she wanted him to do, so much she was afraid to ask for. There was something vulnerable in not only asking for help, but asking for the _permission_ to help. “¿ _Por favor_?”

Her mouth found the corner of his as she spoke, half chapped lips and half smooth cheek. He jolted beneath her, lips parting in a little gasp. There was only enough courage inside her to linger a moment, her upper lip brushing the gap as she retreated. Still, she remained close enough that his breath tickled her cheeks, staring at his nose without a word. Every inhale she managed stuck, singeing her throat when she forced it out. 

“Imelda?” Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the clearing as she raised her head to find his gaze. A dazed look softened the corners of his mouth, eyelids lowered until he watched her through his long lashes. He bent to meet her now, pausing only once to make sure she didn’t plan on moving away. His lips were poised above hers, waiting; she gently bumped her mouth against his until they were moving in a slow, clumsy kiss.

A clammy warmth covered her jaw and she flinched away from it with a gasp, shoulder rubbing unconsciously at the intrusion. She relaxed when she saw his lotion-smeared hand, still hovering in the air. He laughed, trying to smother the sound behind a forced _ahem_ , and wiped his hand carelessly on his slacks. Blushing, she turned to scold him for startling her; her face heated further at the sight of his flushed cheeks, his smirk smeared a sticky pink-red from her lip gloss. His tongue darted to wet his lips, lingering when he tasted the strawberry flavor she’d left behind.

“That wasn’t funny.” It was hard to find any anger to throw behind the words; the bubbling tumult of emotion she’d had earlier had vanished someplace, left by thousands of fluttering wings. It was like the monarch migration, only inside of her. She’d _kissed_ him, she’d kissed Héctor Rivera. There was no denying it; the proof gleamed at her from his lower lip. And what was worse… she wanted to do it again. And again. And _again_.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he _sounded_ repentant, but how could he be when that damned smug grin of his suggested otherwise? She really hated that expression, and all it stood for; that smirk reminded her that he knew her, knew exactly how to push her buttons, and knew how to get away with it every time.

Even now he was leaning forward again, surer of himself as he closed the space between them. To his credit, he shot one cursory glance to make sure she was still alright with this— _thing_ happening between them. She didn’t pull away, pride and willpower overcoming any shyness or aversion. Besides, it hadn’t been bad; quite the opposite, really. _He’s actually a pretty good kisser…._

“Whatever,” she mumbled into his mouth, in reply to both his apology and her own deviant thoughts. Just because she was giving into this didn’t mean she couldn’t have the last word. His only response was an unintelligible hum, tickling her lips as he tilted his head further. He deepened the kiss with firm, perfect pressure; what little resistance she had melted away with the answering rush of warmth between her thighs, every nerve ending alight as her eyes slid shut.

She unthinkingly pressed up into him, her hands finding his shirt and gripping the two loose ends tightly in her fingers. She could taste a hint of the hunger she’d seen in his eyes, his lips catching at hers in a way that nearly had her reduced to a quivering puddle. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, slick with strawberry and a hint of pepper from his spiced lunch; she was rewarded with a softer moan, rumbling in his chest.

He broke them apart first, his hand resting where her neck met her shoulder. She unconsciously followed him until she was on her knees, feeling disheveled although he hadn’t done anything to her hair or clothing. Her lips still tingled, gloss on the corners of her mouth and even some on her chin from when he’d caught her lower lip between his. She felt no urge to wipe it away; it was a reminder of what they’d just done, what they were _doing_.

“You really want to… touch me?” he asked, his hand finding hers and squeezing. His hand was easily able to cover hers entirely, his palm sticky with sweat and lotion. Her breath caught in her throat, hand lying limp in his. Did she? He was still giving her time to back out, to say she’d changed her mind and didn’t want to do this anymore.

“I… _s_ _í_. I do.” She was eager and nervous and afraid, an odd combination to say the least. She was going in blind; even her romance novels were no real help here. There was such a difference between reading about it and the real thing; she didn’t need to touch him to know that. But she couldn’t turn back now, not when she’d already come so far.

“Have you… ever? Before?” He sucked in his cheeks, watching her carefully. _With anyone else—_ unspoken words, hanging in the air between them. She looked at him, wincing at the keen, anxious expression written on his face; he wore his heart on his sleeve, and now was clearly no exception.

“I told you,” she huffed, tossing her hair until her ponytail swung between her shoulders. “I’m a virgin. Remember?” Then again… did hand jobs count towards sex? It’s not as though she’d get pregnant from jacking him off. Sure, it _felt_ sinful and intimate, but maybe that was her own guilt talking. Sixteen years of being force-fed sermons, lectures from her mother, and whispers from the older grades were all at war against each other. Three different opinions, but… which was the right one to have?

“Oh, right!” His jumpy exclamation tore her from her thoughts. “Me too. Virgin, I mean.”

“You said that already,” she pointed out.

“Right.” Again they were at a stalemate, staring at each other rather than just getting on with it. _At this rate we’ll be here until midnight,_ she thought, sighing internally. _Mamá will expect me home by sundown… come on, H_ _é_ _ctor: speed it up! I thought guys were all about taking charge in the bedroom!_ Then again, one could hardly call this a bedroom.  

“Your hand….” His voice dropped to a low rumble, the sound going straight to her core. “It’s trembling. Are you—scared?”

“No.” _Yes_. _A little._ “Of course not. I’m only…” _Nervous. Ready. Definitely **not** ready. _ “Waiting on you. That’s all.”

“Of course,” he parroted, glancing at their hands. “Um… here—” With his free hand, he pulled her by the shoulder until she was nestled into the crook of his arm. She froze, her face to the side of his chest; his heart was a wild, steady rhythm beneath her ear, muffled only by the uneven hitch of his breath. _Casual,_ her mind chided, but she was already relaxing against him in a way that seemed natural.

_Too natural._

Smiling shakily, he drew her hand over his hip and between his thighs. Her eyes followed the movement, widening at what she now saw. She’d only looked away a short time, but he’d changed so much! He was _certainly_ bigger than before, jutting out partway from his body as if held up by an invisible hand. The head glistened, emerging slowly from the protective folds of foreskin, bobbing slightly as he breathed.

She stared, amazed at how quickly the change had come over him; had he been that affected by her kisses? A swell of vanity coursed through her, pride at her own skill. Despite the lack of recent practice, she was clearly still a damn good kisser! _Or,_ the tiny voice in her head piped up, _he’s just into you._

She jolted at the thought, taken aback by her own notion. She’d never considered it before, but— All those strange looks, those soft smiles, the way he’d jumped when she mentioned pinning him down….

Suddenly, a lot of things were starting to make sense.

 _H_ _éctor likes me_? The thought was immediately followed with another, more arrogant one. _Of course he does! What guy in his right mind would be able to resist me?_ However, that pride was quickly tempered by concern, confusion. _If he likes me, I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be making things worse. I mean, it’s not like I like him or anything… right?_ There was just one teensy little problem with that: she didn’t _want_ to stop.

How long had he had feelings for her? Moreover, how was she supposed to let him down after touching him in such an intimate area? _Well, he agreed to it with no strings attached, didn’t he?_ the cynical part of her mind chimed in. That was true; she’d made it clear that it was just to sate her curiosity; then again, she’d also made it clear that she only wanted to watch, and yet she was now an active, willing participant.

“¡ _E_ - _Espera_!” He immediately paused, his fingers loosening to where she could pull away if she wanted to. Her mind flashed to his lotion-smeared palm, the tang of coconut mixed with soap and neomycin and Héctor. “Don’t you need more—I mean, _do you—_ ”

“Hmm?”

“The—the lotion.” She fumbled, looking around for where he’d put the tube. The last thing she wanted was for Héctor to remember this as the time she chafed his dick. His skin would eventually soak up what lotion he’d rubbed on there, and she didn’t want to start off with straight, burning friction. She wasn’t trying to start a campfire.

Besides, if he ever told something like that to anyone (Ernesto), well: she’d never be able to live it down, even if she reached a hundred years old.

“ _’ta bien_ , Imelda,” he chuckled. His voice echoed in his chest, loud beneath her ear. It sounded different than what came out of his mouth, deeper and more growly. _No one gets to hear that,_ she realized. _Only me._ The thought came with a possessive urge to _keep_ it that way, a secret only she knew about.

Keeping her ear flush to his ribs, she watched him guide her hand down to his cock. His fingers felt sure and steady around her fluttering ones; that alone gave her more confidence than she ever could have had on her own. He trusted her: why else would he so boldly wrap her hand—

¡ _Ay, dios mío_!

She sucked in a quick breath, biting down to keep from gasping aloud as he gently pressed her fingers around his shaft. He squeezed down, harder than she would have ever gripped him herself; before she could speak, the back of her hand grew cold as his hand let go. She froze, uncertain of how to move and unwilling to do anything unless she knew it wouldn’t hurt him… or make him laugh at her.

 _Warm,_ her first thought. Warm, dry, silky-smooth skin, throbbing beneath her gentle, hesitant touch. It was like holding… a sunbeam. She discarded the thought almost immediately; that was too poetic, too sappy. It was something he would say.

She unclenched her jaw, letting her fingers spread out into a more natural hold. His skin was so _soft_ , softer than she ever thought it would be. Was that the lotion, or was it always like this? The rest of him wasn’t this soft, it was— She felt his cock lurch beneath her fingers as she smoothed over it; her shoulders jerked, unable to hold in a surprised yelp.

 “It jumped?!” She watched as it twitched visibly in her hand, shock fading only to be replaced by genuine curiosity. Of course it had to do _something_ ; she wasn’t so green as to think men went straight from flaccid to erect. But not in a million years would she have believed they moved like… like this.

“Y-yeah.” He made a high-pitched sound in his throat, trying to balance his weight on one arm. His free hand lay on his thigh, fingers twitching irregularly against the crumped beige of his slacks. “It’ll do that when it’s… y’know.”

She _didn’t_ know, clearly, but she wasn’t about to argue with him right now. Her mind was better occupied; this was the kind of information she was looking for. This is why she’d wanted a living subject in the first place. Maybe the anatomy books would have told her the science behind an erection, but it wouldn’t have said a single word about jumping against her hand, or the way his pulse would be pushing against her fingers through his skin, or the _warmth_ of it.

“Are you alright?” She glanced up to see him watching her face carefully. His mouth cracked in a nervous smile. “You—you’re not moving. I just wanted to make sure….” He trailed off, foot kicking nervously at an uneven patch of grass.

“I—” It seemed weird to admit that she didn’t have the faintest clue on how to start. Did everyone feel this lost, their first time? “I don’t want to hurt you,” she blurted. It was partly true, at least. She’d feel terrible if her first hand job ended up really messing him up below the belt. _My first hand job…. Dios, I’m really about to give H_ _é_ _ctor a hand job? This is **so** not what I had planned for today! _

“You won’t,” he insisted, grinning. She let it slide, feeling that he was more laughing at himself than at her. “I mean, not unless you try to yank it off. I’m a lot sturdier than you think.” _Somehow, I doubt that._ Sturdier, nothing; she’d seen him drop like a stone after a misaimed fútbol hit him right between the legs just last week. She wasn’t about to start getting rough on accident and make a complete mockery of herself.

“Show me, then.” She looked at him expectantly, one brow arching. She tried to treat it as if this was no delicate business between them, nothing involving their emotions; it was easier if she pretended she was asking him to show her a tricky chord on his guitar. “I want to see what it is that guys like.”

“That’s a little hard,” he admitted, scratching his head with a frown. “Not everyone likes the same things, after all.” _Damn_ ; of course it had to be difficult like that. Men being one-trick ponies was apparently too much to expect. “And besides—”

“Why don’t you show me what you like?” she interrupted. He gaped, staring at her with wide, wondering eyes. “I-I mean, I am touching _you_ right now, after all,” she quickly added. It was the most logical place to start from, but... if she were honest with herself, that wasn’t the reason she wanted—no, _needed_ —to know.

She wanted him to feel good, for reasons she didn’t really understand. She wanted him to think of her when he touched himself, to remember how her hands felt when he had to use his own. To think of him alone in that apartment bedroom, his mind filled not with nameless women but with _her_ , her hands, her voice, her body— _dios_ , she was _wet_ thinking about it. She didn’t understand why she felt that way, but she did and she both hated and loved it.

“Erm… I don’t—”

“ _Por favor,_ Héctor… _enseñame_.” It should have been humiliating to ask him like that, her voice pleading and hungry, almost desperate in her sudden need for this to happen, and _now_. His reaction was worth any embarrassment: the way he nodded slowly even as he gulped, the tremor in his hand when it reached for hers once more…. It wasn’t demeaning, it was _gratifying_.

“It’s not that difficult,” he mumbled, blushing hard. His hand covered hers, fingers stroking the back of her palm. She noticed how long his fingers were compared to hers, his hand large enough that he could encircle himself without trying. She was having a hard time getting her thumb and middle finger to touch, and he wasn’t even fully hard yet! _He has to be larger than average; how else… how do women… there’s no way!_

“Hurry up and show me, then.” She licked her lips, prepared to be an attentive student. She was head of her class in everything else; getting the hang of this should be a piece of cake, if it was as easy as he made it sound. She kept her fingers loose and ready, prepared for him to push her in whatever way he pleased.

“You just—uh—kind of—” His hand slid hers down his shaft, remnants of lotion clinging to her fingers. She could feel him changing, growing harder beneath the soft, smooth skin. She wanted to grip him, to really _feel_ the silk-sheathed steel all the romance novels spoke of, but was afraid of clamping down too hard.

They reached the base, unable to go further. She stared at his pelvis, wondering what it would be like to run her fingers through the wild curls covering the skin nearly up to his stomach. The rough, wiry hair scratched at her knuckles invitingly, the skin of his testicles tickling her pinkie. “Squeeze,” he urged her softly, his voice dropping an octave.

“Like this?” She squeezed the base lightly, afraid to put too much pressure on his shaft. He pulsed thickly in her hand; her fingers tightened unconsciously, craving the feel of his heartbeat. She could hear it racing just under her ear, along with a little gasp escaping his parted lips. Instantly she loosened her hold, alarmed. “Too much?” She tried to keep her voice level, cursing herself for hurting him on her first try.

“No! N-no, it—it’s fine.” He sounded breathless, everything from his hair down glowing a bright red. His arms shook, elbow locking as he leaned against her shoulder. “It’s… good.”

“¿ _Estás seguro_?” He nodded sharply, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Alright,” she hummed, unconvinced. “What next? Do we go back?”

“Ah… I guess.” He slid her back up, guiding her hand to cup him from underneath as they neared the top. “Just be careful,” he warned anxiously. “It’s really sensitive beneath the skin.” He hadn’t needed the warning; she was already treating him with all the care she’d give a live bomb.

It wasn’t as though she couldn’t understand his nerves. If it had been his hand beneath her skirts, she’d have— _his hand beneath my skirts…._ She shivered at the mere thought of those long fingers between her parted thighs, exploring her with the same inquisitive enthusiasm she felt towards him. 

They paused at the tip, and she took the opportunity to stroke her thumb over his foreskin curiously. She could feel the outline of his head beneath the folds, and pressed down lightly before she could think. It leapt in her hand, bobbing as he sucked in with a hiss. His hand clamped on hers and he pulled it back down, the foreskin sliding with her fingers to reveal the dark head in its entirety.

“Can—” She stopped herself, biting her lip before the question could escape. Maybe that was something weird to ask. She didn’t know enough about hand jobs to assume that guys enjoyed being touched… up there. As far as she knew, there was only the stroking that got them off; then again, she _had_ just squeezed his cock. That wasn’t counted as stroking, at least not the way she knew it.

“What is it?” His voice was rougher now, a huskier edge to the words. A new wave of heat swept through her, thighs pressed tightly against the dampness in her panties. “What?” he asked again, nearly whining.

“I just want to know if it would hurt… if I touched it.” She nodded towards the head, exposed and glistening. “Even beneath the skin?” He was fully hard now, thick and full in her hand. There was no way she’d be able to encircle him, not with her tiny fingers. Tiny body, tiny hands: tiny everything, compared to him. It made her feel vulnerable, and yet… safe, in some strange way.

He could protect her….

 _What a ridiculous thought_ , she rebuked herself. There was nothing to be protected from. And even if there _was_ , she could do that easily on her own. She didn’t need some strong man swinging in on a vine, bare-chested, to save her from imagined dangers. _But…_ It was nice to think that someone would look out for her, even if she didn’t need them to.

“If you’re careful,” he whispered, bringing her out of her thoughts. He let go of her fingers and she followed suit, watching in disappointment as the skin slid back up over his head. He grabbed himself, fingers circling easily; he slid the skin down until his head was exposed for her, everything from the ridge up dark red and gleaming wetly.

“Is it okay?” she asked shyly, looking with some trepidation at the ridges, the dark skin, the slit on the very tip. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said again.

“You won’t,” he promised. “It’s just… really sensitive. Like a girl’s… uh…” His voice dropped. “Clit.” She nearly laughed in his face; he had his cock out for her, yet he was scandalized to say something as mundane as ‘clit’? He was such a—a boy!

She found herself relaxing further, the mirth lightening her mood as she turned to the task at hand. Flexing her fingers, she considered his head with the air of a scholar studying a new specimen. If it really was like a clit, then he wasn’t joking when he claimed it to be sensitive. Sometimes she could barely stand to touch hers when she was—as her friends often called it—getting off, especially if she was near her period or had been forced to go all day without privacy or relief. Too much pleasure could sometimes be painful instead.

Before she could touch him, his chin settled onto to the top of her head; it dug into her scalp in a way that was unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. Her eyes swiveled up, only able to see the edge of his hair in her peripherals. She quickly grew accustomed to the weight, pressing herself more firmly against his side. They were dangerously close to cuddling, neither one of them saying a single word about it; she pushed the thought aside to consider later, reaching out to brush her fingers over the very tip of his head.

He was sticky-wet, both with lotion and his own natural lubrication. He drew in a slow breath when she ran her index finger over his slit; his hand tightened around his shaft, but beyond that he didn’t move a muscle. The head felt different, compared to his velvety skin; it was firmer, not as giving when she pressed agaisnt it. She tested its give with her thumb and forefinger, pressing lightly until he sighed into her hair, hips shifting agaisnt the ground.

She stopped, waiting for him to fall still. It hadn’t sounded like a painful sigh, or even an annoyed or tired one. He might have even… been enjoying her touch? She waited for him to say something, her hand practically vibrating with the need to move, but he seemed content to wait for her instead.

“Is this alright?” she finally asked, unable to bear the silence any longer. He didn’t answer, but she felt him nod agaisnt her hair and took it as a sign to continue. Growing a little bolder, she stroked her palm over the top before sliding her fingers around him, down to the ridge that separated his foreskin from the head. It felt good, really good, a nice change in texture that kept her hungry for more. She was no longer afraid of hurting him; her touch was so light that her fingertips tickled with every little stroke and tap. She was probably tickling him, the more she thought about it.

Any qualms she had dissipated when she palmed him again, a thrill running through her at the sensation of his slick, smooth wetness against her inner hand. She liked the way it felt, the warmth, the way it seemed to be made for her fingers to circle; changing tactics, she cupped it while running her thumb in a circle around the slit.

“ _Imelda_ ….” She paused again, this time in shock as her face flooded with heat. He’d just… he’d just _moaned_ her name? She could only assume it was the good kind of moan, the kind that forced her to sink her teeth into her hand when giving into her needs in the middle of the night. But there was no way of knowing unless she saw his face, which was currently nuzzling into her hair. 

“Y-yeah?” She felt foolish answering this way. What kind of stupid virgin had to repeatedly ask if the guy she was jacking off was alright? Shouldn’t she just _know_ if he was having a good time or not? Maybe she wasn’t doing this right at all, maybe she was going about it all wrong and he was just too polite to tell her to stop it. She heard him swallow, his fist tightening somewhere in the grass behind her.

“I….” His voice was thick and hoarse, chest heaving against her side. He was nearly panting, she realized. _That’s a good sign, right? Right?_ “I didn’t mean to say that,” he admitted in a small voice. “I’m okay,” he added quickly. “I just… um, sometimes I say stuff. You know me.”

He was trying to assure her, but her mind had already jumped to its own conclusions. Did he say her name because she was here? Because she was the one with her hand wrapped around him? Or… or was it an automatic reaction? Had he said her name before, other times? She knew now that he liked her, and must have liked her for some time. Did he ever touch himself and wish that it was her touching him instead? Did he close his eyes when he stroked himself, whispering her name to an empty room? 

 _Dios, espero que sí_.

“Do you want me to keep going? I mean, should I… go harder? Or—”

“Just touch me,” he blurted, voice muffled as he leaned into her. She felt his lips move against her scalp, tickling though the thick curtain of her hair. “Anywhere, however you want to, just… touch me, _por favor_.” She thought she felt him press a kiss to her head as well, but perhaps he was just moving against her—it was hard to tell, with her hair pulled back so tightly into her ponytail.

She understood, now, what he’d meant earlier. When he asked her like that, when he _begged_ … how could she resist him? How could she find the strength to say no? He was cute when his voice cracked like that, roughened by emotion and pleading with her to touch him more, and more, and— _wait. Cute?_ Since when did she find him cute? _Well, that’s new… I think._

“ _L-lo que quieras_ ….” She let herself recline against him, pushing his fingers out of the way before repeating their earlier motions on her own. In some absurd way it was like stroking an animal, a pet, only that pet was pushing his face into her hair and making soft little sounds that set her on fire.

“ _’Melda_ —Imel— _oh—_ ” His nose bumped against her temple, lips brushing along her browbone in a clumsy, gasping kiss. She squeezed his shaft again, nearly letting go in surprise when he hissed a sharp curse right into her ear, his hips snapping against her hand. “ _Mi-er-da—”_ He groaned, teeth clenched as his hand reached blindly for hers. His shaking fingers covered her own, forcing her into a faster rhythm.

“Let _me_ do it,” she grumbled, fighting his hand as best she could without moving from the comfortable pocket of warmth his body made as it curled around her. It was her turn, damnit! He grappled with her, their fingers shoving at each other for dominance until she snapped. “Héctor, _stop_ it!”

“Go faster!” he snapped back, voice cracking. “You’re the one who’s going too slow—I… I _need_ — _más—_ ” They sounded like children, fighting over whose turn it was to play with a favored toy. _So much for mature_ ; no matter… she didn’t feel at all like being an adult about it anymore. If he wanted to _fight_ about it, well—it took two people to argue, and she wasn’t about to stand down just because she thought he was cute.

“You want _faster_?” she snarled, gaining the upper hand and squeezing until he choked off his answering growl. She slowed to a crawl, her fingers dragging oh-so-carefully from base to tip. There was hardly any pressure, her touch just enough that he could feel every inch; his cock twitched, rising as if it was trying to chase her hand. “Is this fast enough?” If this slower speed felt painful to her, it had to be near _torturous_ for him. _Serves you right, you should have been more patient—_

“ _F-u-u-ck_ ,” he choked, head falling back as a tremor wracked him from head to toe. “Imelda, _fuck_ —payback’s a bi- _it-_ tch—” She grinned when he managed to look at her, angry and turned on and amazed all at once. It was intoxicating, the power she held over him with one hand; five fingers and she could reduce him to a cursing mess, writhing beneath her on the forest floor. “I’m g-gonna get you ba- _back_ ,” he swore, panting unsteadily. 

_Oh, I could get used to this._

“Oh, really?” His eyes narrowed at her smug tone, a pout pulling at his swollen lips. “And just _how_ are you going to do that?” He opened his mouth, a smart answer at the ready, but she was prepared for him. Her thumb pressed a firm, slow circle against the ridge beneath his head, trying out a move she remembered from one of Lucía’s more salacious stories.

She must have been telling the truth; he made a raw sound, shoes bowing as his toes tried to curl. His spine arched beautifully as his hips rose from the ground, her eyes straining as she tried to drink it all in at once. It was nearly impossible, he was too tall; she couldn’t watch the muscles jumping in his pelvis without missing the pleasure written on his face. A fresh sheen of sweat coated his brow, his bangs plastered to his forehead and long, uncut locks curling at his nape in a way that practically _begged_ her fingers to sink as far into them as she was able. 

“I— _ah, oh_ —I don’t know!” He squirmed, mouth twisting in frustration. “Imelda-a-a, you’re—you’re killing me—” He lurched up, startling her as he suddenly loomed where he’d been reclined. His hands grabbed her cheeks, pulling her up in a hard kiss that had her melting against him with a moan of her own. His teeth bit at her lower lip, nipping hard enough that she jumped in surprise. “ _Por favor_ ,” he groaned, one hand sliding back to tangle in her ponytail.

“I—” She’d kissed other guys before, even made out with a few, but none of them had ever been this… _passionate. Artists,_ her mind quipped sarcastically, only to go blank when his tongue slid past her lips. She forgot what she was doing, where she was; everything except who she was with, who was making her feel like a boneless blob of jelly. He gently tugged at her hair until her face was raised to his, his tongue rolling against hers as he explored her mouth.

 _Shit, he’s done this before… with who?_ A spark of jealousy sputtered to life in her chest, gnawing through the haze of warm pleasure that’d been kindling all afternoon. _I don’t even want to know_ , she thought, frowning against his lips. _I don’t want to have to fight someone over H_ _é_ _ctor Rivera…._ Her hand sped up, giving into his pleas with selfish abandon. _I better be the only one who ever does this for him; even if he does get another girl, he’ll only think of me when she’s touching him, I’ll be the best he’s ever had if it **kills** me—_

“Nnn—Imelda, stop a sec— _shit­—”_ His hand grabbed at her fingers more desperately, breaking from her to stammer breathlessly. “I’m going—I’m about to make a—not on your skirt!” he managed, eyes imploring her to listen to him. _Yes, on my skirt!_ was her first thought, only to be cowed by the impracticality of it. She had to go home at some point, to a mamá who would be able to sense impropriety a mile away.

She highly doubted her mother would believe she’d been baking a very eggy cake.

“What do you want to do, then?” He couldn’t just make it… go another way? Didn’t he have any kind of control over his own body? He batted her hand away, glancing back to see she was watching him with a keen interest. He stroked himself harder, speeding up until his hand was nearly a blur. _Did he honestly think I could go that fast?!_ She gaped, watching with wide eyes as his breathing became labored, filling the clearing with the sound of harsh pants.

“Imelda… _dios…._ ” His shoulders hunched, teeth clenching as his hips rocked in desperate time with his hand. She slowly drew her knees up as she watched, wincing at the soaked feeling of her underwear. She probably had spots, ones she’d have to secretly take care of, but it was worth it to see the way his spine flexed, body curving like a work of art as he pleasured himself without the anxious nerves he’d felt earlier.

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_ ,” she whispered, the sound trickling out between the fingers pressed against her mouth. He’d clearly heard, his eyes turning towards where she sat; he took in the sight of her parted knees, skirt riding up her thighs, hair unkempt and face flushed. He could probably see a flash of her underwear from that angle, but she didn’t care. Let him look, let him think about her when he was alone, let him remember how her hand felt on him, how her voice sounded, and that she’d _enjoyed_ every second of it—

The first spurt was more than she’d ever expected it to be, a glob of white that shot onto the leafy grass. He let out a soft cry, slumping as he continued to work his hand; she watched as smaller streaks painted the grass, dripping along his knuckles and pooling in white beads from the slit. He took his hand from his cock and they stretched, sticky and translucent, clinging to his fingers and drying on the ground. His head remained bent, shoulders heaving as his breathing settled down into something more manageable.

An insatiable thought, unquenched by modesty, had her reaching out for him again. She cupped him gently, ignoring his warning hum and watching as it began to wilt in her palm. Her hand came back smeared with the same stickiness on his knuckles, quickly cooling into a congealed mass.

“Oh, hang on.” He reached for her hand, grabbing the tail of his shirt. “I’ll get that—” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to do it—looking back she might blame the shock factor, or just plain old-fashioned curiosity—but before he could touch her she’d managed to swipe the mess right off her palm with her tongue. _Salty…._ She licked her lips, rolling the taste around her mouth. It meshed with the leftover taste of his tongue, a briny, peppery mixture that wasn’t neither preferable or unpleasant. He gasped, brows jumping beneath his sweaty locks. “Oh!”

“What?” She wiped her hand on her sock, the white fabric hiding any leftover semen her tongue hadn’t caught.

“I didn’t know girls did that.” His face was flushed, eyes soft and sparkling with a weary, sated gleam. “I thought that… never mind.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He inched closer to her, the two of them soaking up as much of the moment as they could before things grew awkward again. “Um… are we….” He wiped his hand carelessly on his shirt, rubbing over the knuckles before scratching his head. “Does this mean we’re going out now?”  

“Umm….” What a question! How was she supposed to know the answer to that? He reached for her hand, holding it lightly on the edge of his thigh. Their fingers, still slippery with fluid and lotion, slid together clumsily until—with some silent, unspoken compromise—they interlocked them.

“Do I get to hold your hand and walk you home?” he asked, somewhat hopeful.

“Mmm….” She looked down at her lap, thoughts swirling in her head in time to the frantic tattoo of her heart. Relationships? She hadn’t been looking to get into some kind of _thing_ with him, she’d only wanted to… _to what?_ Look at his penis, then go home like nothing had happened? She’d known from the beginning it would never be as easy as that, but… handholding? Going out?

“Do I get to carry your books at school?” She glanced up at him, eyes shining at her from beneath his bushy brows. He wasn’t handsome at all, was he? Not with those goofy ears, and his big nose, and the dumb half-goatee, and his big teeth, and his…. Popular girls like herself were supposed to date macho men, with symmetrical features and thick beards and rock-hard abs. No one would expect her to be seen with a gangly, goofy boy like Héctor.

“ _S_ _í_.” She shrugged, trying to toss her hair and ending up with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. “All of that.”

“We’re _novios_?!” he exclaimed, voice breaking on a high, gleeful note. She nodded, shrugging again, and then screeched when all 160 lbs. of him crashed onto her in a tackling, squeezing, breathtaking embrace.

“Héctor!” she wheezed, eyes bulging. “Let go!”

“Imelda! I’m so—I’ve been wanting, for a long time now—I didn’t want to say anything!” he stammered, grinning broadly and rubbing his sweaty face against her cheek. “I thought I was fine being your friend… you really like me? You like-like me!?”

“Héctor, I just gave you a hand job! How can you ask something like that?!” Never mind that she didn’t even know before today—still didn’t really know. She had to go home now, to turn everything over in her mind, to worry and stress and chew her fingernails to the quick and change her mind at least seven times before dawn. And then she’d know for sure if she liked him enough to tell her parents she finally had a _novio_.

Which… she probably would. Soon. Definitely.

Maybe.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally broke my writing record with this pre-biker!AU oneshot. this puppy is exactly 18,107 words, over 4k more than Movie Night! 
> 
> I hope this makes up for being absent for a while-- between personal issues, my grandmother’s surgery, and juggling extra loads at work, I’ve been stretched thin. But I do plan on finishing out the 30 Day Challenge, even if it’s taking way more than 30 days!


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